


Bet My Life

by vienn_peridot



Series: Orders Up [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deadlock can't do emotions, Developing Relationship, Emotional Constipation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Industrial-strength Feels, Masturbation, Matchmaking, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Other, Ratchet needs a babysitter, Sexual Abuse, Starscream makes an amazing villain, Terrible chapter titles, Torture, Trauma, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadlock is taken prisoner by someone he never expected to become an enemy.<br/>Attempted escape lands him in the hands of enemies he recognises.<br/>Slowly he begins to heal and re-forges himself into someone and something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captured

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was commissioned by NotAnEvilMastermind.  
> Now you see what happens when a plotbunny runs away with me. I regret nothing.  
> The title for this fic comes from the song ['I Bet My Life' by Imagine Dragons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ht80uzIhNs). It's a song that seems to describe Drift's complicated relationship with important figures in his life in canon, especially Ratchet. I couldn't find a title that fit better than this.

Deadlock onlined slowly.

Onlined _wrong_.

Before he had even a tiny fraction of his processor booted it was obvious that he was locked out of a large number of essential systems. Weapons, comms, T-cog access all denied. Chronometer disabled. His frame hurt in the familiar ways that meant multiple major injuries and at least enough repairs to stabilise him. Cool air flowing over his protoform informed the warrior that massive sections of his armour were missing.

‘Con medics _never_ removed that much armour unless it was a life-threatening emergency.

And they _always_ replaced it when surgery ended.

_What the frag happened?_

Memory was slow to return, as sluggish as everything else. Deadlock wanted to grind his denta at the wait but his jaw wouldn’t respond.

Or rather; it _tried_ to respond but it wouldn’t or _couldn’t_ close.

A few more seconds crawled by, then Deadlock discovered why.

There was something in his mouth. Something keeping it open.

Nothing responded to his attempts to force the boot sequence and awaken faster. It continued in the slow, implacable systematic fashion of a medical boot without the familiar glyphic notations on his HUD.

In fact, when Deadlock’s HUD finally wavered into existence it was so truncated as to be nearly non-existent. All he had left was basic frame integrity warnings and fuel levels.

That was it.

Everything else was simply _gone_.

_What the frag_ happened?!

Scattered fragments of memory started to return, crawling back to him one line at a time. As they did Deadlock gradually pieced together the progression of a massive battle through a series of grainy, corrupted images. The low quality hinted that he may have sustained a head injury of some kind while they were being recorded. His helm definitely ached, but not in a way that indicated anything worse than a hard punch or being too close to an exploding bomb.

_Bombs… the Seekers were running aerial bombardment, weren’t they?_

It came together too slowly for his liking.

Deadlock chafed at the restriction of his frame, wondering what the medics had done to his head and why he didn’t seem to have any analgesics in his system at all; not even the simplest coding blocks on messages from his pain receptors. His sensornet was almost completely overwhelmed with pain messages. Somehow Deadlock still had just enough tactile feedback trickling through the bottleneck on his available processing power to be aware that he was in restraints and had some sort of obstruction in his mouth, forcing his jaw wide. He investigated the thing while waiting for his optics to respond.

Smooth, hard ceramic-coated metal met Deadlock’s questing glossa. It was a texture he was intimately familiar with, a form whose purpose he knew he should recognise. Almost absent-mindedly he traced around and around the hoop wedged between his denta, trying to encourage the production of oral solvents to ease the horrendous dryness he was suddenly aware of.

The slow boot finished. Deadlock recognised what was in his mouth and tried to throw his helm back despite the pain and damage warnings that nearly blinded him, trying to escape the horrible thing strapped firmly to his helm and holding his mouth open.

A ring gag.

Even though he _knew_ it was futile Deadlock still struggled, growling and trying to worm his way out of the bindings on his frame until pain threatened to send him back into unconsciousness. Snarling with frustration Deadlock went limp, feeling his frame swing in a way that meant he was suspended above the floor. Panting through his vents he felt energon seep from reopened wounds as he waited for the pain to subside so he could try again.

_Whoever did this is going to PAY._

He was overheating, panting through the gag and still struggling against the restraints when the sound of a door opening reached his audials. _Finally_ Deadlock managed to bring his optics online, only to find that they were next to useless. The lenses were shattered, asymmetric patterns of cracks warping his vision, fracturing his world into a meaningless jumble of shapes and colour that made his gyros roll and empty tanks lurch in protest. Shutting them off solved the problem, but it left him blind.

Hanging helpless in the dark, waiting for his captor to strike.

There was no other explanation for this situation. Bound, gagged, locked out of his systems, wounded and half-stripped as he was, Deadlock could only be someone’s captive.

_Only gotta wait to find out who it is. When I get outta here I’m taking their Spark Chamber for a trophy._

Deadlock flexed his hands and waited, listening intently to the sound of light pedesteps approaching over the soft crackle of white noise in his damaged audials. Whoever it was stopped well out of what Deadlock figured his current range would be. He didn’t bother trying to attack, the hollow feeling in his tank bringing back the lessons he’d learned while starving in the gutters.

_Don’t move unless you have to, unless you’ve got an objective_. _Save your fuel._

His lack of reaction seemed to disappoint his captor. A sharp exhalation and the creak of armour heralded the other mech’s EM Field extending, the complex impression of _irritated/amusemed/smug/gloating_ carried on an all-too-familiar resonance.

_No_.

“Well, well, _well_. What have we here?” The ruined voice rasped over Deadlock’s mental nerves, making him wish that it his _audials_ that were effectively inoperative and not his optics.

“ _Starscream_.” Deadlock deliberately used his native Dead End dialect instead of the proper Vosian pronunciation. “You gonna explain what the frag’s goin on here?”

He expected Starscream to react to the deliberate mangling of his name, but the Winglord was apparently in too good a mood to rise to the bait.

“I would have thought you could figure that out for yourself.” Starscream’s voice and Field were thick with obviously fake pleasantness that set Deadlock on edge. “What’s the matter? Did you suffer processor damage recently, or could it _actually_ be that you really are as stupid as I’ve always said?”

As Starscream spoke a terrible suspicion began to grow in Deadlock’s pain-wracked consciousness.

_No…_

“Since giving you the benefit of the doubt has never worked very well, let me explain it for you.” Starscream sounded far too happy as he began to pace around Deadlock. “In _little_ words so that your inferior processor might understand.”

He tried to relax, tried to project boredom and indifference as Starscream tweaked at the suspension rig and sent fresh pain lancing through his frame. The Seeker paced around and around, circling him, looking for further weakness to exploit.

“You are here because you got in my way.” Starscream articulated every word slowly and clearly as he circled the helpless speedster “ _Ludicrous_ , isn’t it? I know. How _could_ a dusty little ground-pounder like yourself _possibly_ threaten someone like me?”

The sheer arrogance of the words made Deadlock want to sink his claws into pristine wings and start shredding. He flexed his fingers experimentally. Only half of his claws appeared to be usable but that would be _more_ than enough for him to ground the Seeker.

“Well, you got ideas above your station.” Starscream continued on, apparently oblivious to the rage Deadlock was projecting. “First you got Megatron’s attention and _then_ you somehow managed to convince him that you were more than just another grunt who happened to be able to shoot.”

The words continued, slow poison seeping into Deadlock’s crackling audials to play on the doubts that crept into his processor on the long nightcycles when recharge wouldn’t come. Pain lowered his defences, making him more susceptible to Starscream’s words.

“Now I don’t know if you actually _did_ have slightly more than average talent with a gun, or if it was just a case of you spreading your legs and swallowing spike in order to gain favour with our glorious leader.” There was jealousy there, buried beneath the scorn. “In either case, you _got in my way_. So I was forced to take you out.”

Those light pedesteps came around in front of him again and Deadlock wished his mouth wasn’t so dry so he could work up something to _spit_ at the gloating mech.

“And now I am going to remind you of your _true_ place in this universe.” A slim claw traced Deadlock’s lips where they stretched around the smooth ceramic of the gag. “When I am _sufficiently_ convinced you have learned your place, then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

Deadlock tried to sneer, growling at Starscream and projecting all the hatred and defiance he could summon into the clammy, sickening EMF that clung to his own. Starscream’s absolute faith in the truth of his words sent chills down Deadlock’s spinal struts that he shook off with an effort.

_Fragging airhead. Megatron will be looking for me. I won’t be here long._

Somehow divining what he was thinking, Starscream leaned down and whispered into Deadlock’s audial in a grotesque parody of a lover’s croon.

“Nobody can save you now, least of all _Megatron_.” In this low tone Starscream’s voice held all the old honeyed power for which he used to be known. “You’d better get used to this, pet. You’re _mine_ now.”

At those words Deadlock exploded, thrashing and snarling and trying to slam Starscream in the face with his own battered and dented helm. The Seeker was too quick for him, neatly dodging and laughing all the way out of the room.

Deadlock didn’t stop trying to fight his way free until pain and energon loss forced his frame into defensive shutdown.


	2. Prisoner and Fragtoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock learns new ways to suffer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to avoid explicit nastiness, skip this chapter. Imagine a ~*Torture Montage*~ censor-screen or instead. Events in this chapter will be referenced later on in -VAGUE- detail.
> 
> Songs for this chapter: [Fire and Ice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ve2pS-jxXz0) [Within Temptation], [Perfect Enemy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovaZ0KfIWiE) [TATU], [Passive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kpn3V_Cnhg) \+ [Pet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPZz0235eIA) [A Perfect Circle], [Anima Mala](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4xSbSpR9j4) \+ [Punga Infinita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBach9lgfFI) [Kajiura Yuki], [Sarabande](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klPZIGQcrHA) [Handel]

It was a given that Deadlock didn’t respond well to imprisonment.

At first Starscream deprived him of fuel in an attempt to bring him under control.

It didn’t work as well as he’d probably hoped.

Deadlock hung, aching and hungry, projecting venomous hatred every time the Seeker come to torment him. He conserved his strength as his frame slowly consumed itself, remaining defiant even as he starved. When he reached truly critical levels Starscream finally deigned to feed him, just a little, just enough to keep him online, just enough to keep Deadlock aware of what happened to him.

At first it wasn’t much.

At least, it wasn’t much by Deadlock’s standards.

Simple gloating, endless streams of words he tried to ignore. They still haunted him, echoing over and over in his processors long after Starscream had left, sinking claws into his mind that became harder to dislodge the weaker he got. Every now and then Starscream hosed him down, an icy-cold blast of extremely dilute solvent that made Deadlock squirm in useless attempts to evade it while the Seeker laughed and called him filth, trash, guttermech.

A great lover of attention, the Winglord seemed to relish every time he could pry a reaction from Deadlock.

After a few days (Or weeks, Deadlock wasn’t sure) Starscream inevitably tired of the lack of reaction to the unrelenting verbal abuse.

So he moved on to the physical.

By then Deadlock had stopped expecting a physical attack and he was long accustomed to the constant pain of his position and the slowly-healing injuries. He had begun to take it for granted that Starscream wouldn’t touch him, so the Seeker storming in and backhanding him across the face was the last thing he expected. Starscream had put all his strength into the blow, Deadlock’s helm snapped to the side under the power of the strike. He snarled around the gag as pain exploded through his head in a bright burst of sparks, whipping back and attempting to bite Starscream despite the gag.

“So _this_ is what it takes, hmm?” Starscream crooned, shoving a clawed fingertip carelessly through the straps of the gag, digging long gouges into Deadlocks’ cheek as he pressed forehelm and Field against the speedster. “ _Pain_ is what it takes to get a reaction from you?”

The delight in his Field was sickening.

Deadlock fought to keep his own Field blank and unresponsive, cursing his stupidity. He’d been hoping that Starscream would get bored and careless, slip up and give him a chance to escape.

Now that he was paying attention again Deadlock was back at square one.

So began a new routine of beatings combined with verbal abuse that wore him down faster than starvation and insults alone.

Despite being locked out of most of his HUD Deadlock knew his frame had definitely reprioritised fuel usage. He didn’t need any for movement right now, so what fuel he got that wasn’t needed for bare minimum essential systems was being shunted into repair, so that when he got an opening he would be able to take advantage of it and _escape._

Even though he made endless plans to extricate himself from Starscream’s clutches, somewhere deep in his Spark Deadlock still hoped for rescue. Some unquenchable spark of hope still expected Megatron would burst through the door at any moment and blast his tormentor into molten slag.

Almost inevitably Starscream escalated his abuse to include sexual violations.

By the time he did, Deadlock had retreated deep inside himself in an attempt to escape in any way he could. He clung desperately to a fading hope that _somebody_ would notice _something_ ; that someday soon Starscream would give him an opening that Deadlock could use to get out of here.

He didn’t even flinch when the Seeker ripped off the inner cover of his hardline ports, uploading a virus that would give Starscream remote access to the controls for Deadlock’s interfacing array. But no matter how hard he tried Deadlock just couldn’t control his shudders when Starscream started opening and closing his pelvic armour and secondary covers at whim.

There was no mistaking the arousal in Starscreams’ Field whenever he forced Deadlock’s spike to extend or his valve to lubricate while he tormented the helpless mech, trying to condition his frame to react to abuse while calling him _buymech_ and _disposable_ as he fragged Deadlock’s face through the ring gag, overloading across Deadlock’s bruised faceplates and swaggering away to leave his spill to dry wherever it landed.

After that Deadlock went away further inside, tested his healing injuries, plotted Starscream’s demise.

Still waiting for his chance to escape.

The day Starscream brought a welding torch with him it almost seemed like an afterthought, the way he dropped it carelessly on the floor before taking Deadlock’s helm in his claws, fragging the speedster’s mouth with swift, harsh thrusts. By the time the Winglord finished and retrieved the welding torch Deadlock was beyond thinking, simply enduring and waiting for this round of abuse to be over.

He didn’t even struggle or keen when Starscream ignited the torch and held it to Deadlock’s secondary spike cover. It was set to a low heat, melting his metal with agonising slowness.

Eventually he finished, locking Deadlock’s penetrative equipment away for good.

The primary armour cover of Deadlock’s interfacing array received similar treatment, except Starscream welded it _open_ instead.

Then the Winglord commanded Deadlock’s valve to lubricate for his usage, taking him roughly, pulling out to overload across the fresh welds with a hoarse shriek of ecstasy as Deadlock shuddered silently underneath him. Tucking his still-erect spike away, Starscream picked up the blowtorch and sauntered out.

Deadlock inhaled, shivering as he thought of what _else_ Starscream could have done with that welder, relieved and grateful that the seeker had restrained himself.

When Deadlock noticed the direction of his own thoughts the dim flicker of his consciousness and remaining sanity gave up on making new plans, retreating almost beyond reach. From then on he watched almost dispassionately as Starscream took his valve, his mouth, overloaded onto his plating with obscene pleasure as that harsh, ruined voice poured a river of poisonous words into the silent spaces where Deadlock’s consciousness had been.

_Always figured he’d get off on power_ …

Starscream began leaving him alone for long periods. Deadlock was grateful for this at first, thinking it a kindness, a reprieve. Then loneliness began to creep in and he hated himself for it, no longer able to gather the energy to struggle against his fate.

In the face of these irregular desertions Deadlock’s last tenuous hold on sanity began to slip.

After a particularly long interval where he was left aching and hungry and neglected for what felt like weeks he became almost _grateful_ for Starscream’s attention.

When Starscream was tormenting him or thrusting briskly into his frame it was confirmation that Deadlock still existed, that _someone_ acknowledged him.

Even if only as a hole to overload in.

Then came a period of abandonment so long that Deadlock finally broke.

A low, pleading sound filled the air around him. An animal whine of desperation.

_Come back. Someone, anyone, please come back._

When Starscream returned he moaned, pleading for something _anything_ so long as the Seeker touched him.

His valve and mouth drooled automatically, ready for Starscream’s spike without needing the seeker’s radio commands to activate. By now his optics had healed just enough to give him a fuzzy, distorted view of his captor approaching, reaching up.

Starscream let him down, undid some of the restraints. Then roughly he pulled Deadlock up onto his knees, pushed the speedster’s face into the ground and fragged him raw. Deadlock listened dispassionately to the hoarse repetition of ‘buymech’ and ‘one-use’ until Starscream overloaded with a raucous shout. Deadlock didn’t move when the seeker got off him and walked out with his glossy wings mantling high and proud.

Deadlock stayed where he was.

On his knees, face in the dust, staring blankly into the distance as friction-heated fluids slid down his thighs.

_I guess… this is where I belong now._

He was still like that position when the Winglord returned; the barest brush of the gloating, lust-filled Field enough to wake his valve to life, ready to be used like the mindless fragtoy he had become.

“This will _never_ get old.”

An unknown length of time later; Starscream sounding smug as he circled the broken mech.

“You on your knees for me. No matter how many times I see this it will _never_ lose the thrill. Do you want to know how long you’ve been here, my pet?” The Seeker tilted his helm, red optics half-closed as he studied the speedster with obvious enjoyment. “I bet you would, wouldn’t you? No chronometer, no comms, irregular feeding and improper wound care, all weak and confused as you are.”

A sharp clawtip stroked down Deadlock’s jawline, scraping a line through the filth encrusting him. Deadlock didn’t suppress the shiver that wracked his frame. Maybe Starscream would hose him down today? He could feel the grime coating him and positively itched for the freezing cold jet of the high-pressure hose.

It was better than nothing. And Deadlock had nothing, _was_ nothing.

“Confused as you are, I bet you have absolutely no _idea_ how much time has passed.” The words were enunciated slowly, drawn out, hungry red optics fixed on Deadlock’s reaction.” It could be _weeks_. It could _just_ as easily have been months… or _years_.”

_No_. _No!_

Deadlock’s engine seized. His vents choked on empty air as he struggled desperately to refute the suggestion that he’d been Starscream’s captive –unremarked, unnoticed, _unmissed_ \- for longer than a handful of weeks.

Broken as he was the concept still had enough power to drive daggers into his Spark.

Deadlock sucked air in through the gaping hole of the ring gag, a guttural keening sound escaping from his vocaliser.

_No no no it can’t be years it_ can’t _be. Someone would have noticed, someone would have come looking. I_ matter _to Megatron, I’m one of his best soldiers! They_ have _to have noticed._

Greedy red optics watched avidly; wide, lustrous wings flicking with definite enjoyment as Starscream basked in his panicked reaction.

Armour shifted and Starscream’s spike extended before Deadlock’s horrified optics.

“Yes, it very well _could_ have been years that you’ve been down here. My personal fragtoy, a desperate little buymech to frag whenever I feel like.” Starscream lowered a hand to his erection, toying with himself as he continued to gloat. “And _nobody_ has come looking, have they? In fact, nobody has even bothered to ask where you are.”

These were all things he’d said before. Things Deadlock had automatically denied, convinced that his absence couldn’t have gone unnoticed.

But now… now Deadlock listened. And he wondered.

Because if it really _had_ been as long as Starscream implied then there was truth to his words.

Starscream saw Deadlock’s doubt and his Field filled with delight.

“That’s right; _nobody cares_.” The Winglord confirmed, moving closer. “And nobody _would_ care if I decided to keep you like this forever.” The hand that wasn’t on his spike rose to take Deadlock’s chin and forced him to look up at him as that cloying Field smothered him with fabricated sympathy. “ _Poor_ Deadlock. How does it feel? To know that even _Megatron_ hasn’t bothered looking for you? My greatest rival suddenly vanished and _nobody questioned it_.”

_No… Megatron would have looked for me. He_ must _be_ looking _for me._

Staring horrified and spellbound into Starscream’s optics, held fast by that convincing EMF, Deadlock suddenly found it impossible to maintain the hope that had sustained him this long.

“Maybe they were _glad_ to be rid of you?” Starscream’s voice was low and compelling, eroding the remains of Deadlock’s defiance. “You’re hardly the _best_ image for the Decepticons, after all. You’re not smart, you’re _definitely_ not photogenic and you have _no_ useful skills to speak of.”

_I can shoot._

The Winglord smirked and shook his helm, almost as if he could read Deadlock’s thoughts.

“You’re nowhere _near_ as indispensable as you seem to think, Deadlock. You’re just a slut with a gun. That’s all you’ve _ever_ been.”

The words bit deep, deeper than he let on despite the flickers of distress he couldn’t control.

“And Deadlock?”

_But… But Megatron_ values _me… Doesn’t he?_

“Guns are cheap, but buymech trash like you is _even cheaper_.” Starscream’s words were even and steady despite the rapid movements of his hand over his spike. They ate into Deadlock’s psyche like acid and Starcream drank his reactions down with relish. “All we have to do is go to somewhere like Rodion, flash a single shanix around and they all come crawling, just like you did.”

_I didn’t… I didn’t_ crawl _._

“Every last one of them useless garbage, just like you. Ready to shoot what we tell them to.” The Winglord leaned forward now, drawn by the open pain in Deadlock’s Field. The final spark of defiance was guttering, on the verge of flickering out. “Every last one of them ready to take a spike when and where we tell them to; grateful to be out of the gutters. _Just like you._ ”

There was almost nothing left within the broken mech now that could refute Starscream’s words. They washed over him in an endless tide, razing what was left of his world and leaving nothing but ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable escalation of abuse. Even Starscream had to work himself up to it.  
> I pulled from G1, TFA and TFP when writing Starscream here. The result was very disturbing to write.


	3. Die Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock finally escapes.  
> Ratchet encounters someone he never expected to see again.  
> Prowl gets a headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Ilah (Silent War)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gPpRY3WwCw) -Blindspott, [Get Out Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miFhwa1_fwE) -Three Days Grace.

The world was shaking.

Distant boom and rumble, familiar sounds and vibrations coming at irregular intervals pulling the broken mech from the hazy almost-recharge state he occupied when his captor wasn’t using him.

Lights flickered, off-on-off as the explosions drew closer. The mech who had been Deadlock sat up and looked at the door, waiting for something. He didn’t know who or what he was waiting for. Maybe Starscream or Megatron. Maybe one of his former comrades.

Maybe Autobots.

There was no way of knowing where he was or who might come for him.

As it turned out, nobody came. The muffled _whump-boom_ of an explosion close at hand had old reflexes curling his frame into a defensive ball moments before the concussion of the shockwave tore through his cell.

All power went down and the room shuddered around him, walls and floor rippling in the dim, sickly glow of his biolights. The ceiling cracked and rivulets of dust poured down, filling the room with clouds of choking powder. Then it passed and the broken mech didn’t move as the air cleared and fine grit settled on his frame, listening to the sound of further explosions and hoping vaguely that the next one would send the ceiling down upon him.

It wasn’t the ceiling that gave.

It was the door.

Popping open with a tortured squeal of warped hinges, almost beckoning as it wavered and ground to a halt.

The broken mech sat up, dust sheeting from his frame. He stared numbly at the gap for several pulses of his Spark, trying to comprehend the sudden change in his world.

Something flickered and flared deep within the broken mech and Deadlock staggered painfully to his pedes.

Aching and stiff the speedster lurched towards the door, stumbling towards freedom on legs that didn’t remember how to move. Everything hurt in a way he was intimately familiar with. Long starvation and abuse had taken their toll.

His frame was shutting down even as he forced it to move.

_If ‘m gonna die, I’m gonna die_ free.

There was nothing familiar about the rooms he staggered through, holding on to things to stay upright as he searched for a way out, forcing his pedes to move onwards, always onwards.

In one room he found the remains of what might have been a fairly impressive stash of engex. Old habits moved his hands, the broken mech stuffing as much as he could fit into his subspace, chugging a bottle down as he did so to keep him upright long enough to escape. It burned his tanks, threatening to come right back up. The rush of energy made his head spin. Limbs shaking, he continued his unsteady progress, trying to access his T-Cog and failing every time.

Some sort of fuel _finally_ hit his processor.

Deadlock looked up.

There was a set of markings on the ceiling he recognised; a bright directional stripe that would lead him to escape pods.

It was quieter now, the explosions distant.

Deadlock pushed his frame as hard as he could, making it to the escape pods just as he heard the roar of heavy engines approaching.

Falling through the door of the nearest escape pod, Deadlock slapped at the auto-release.

The G-forces of launch slammed him to the floor and he blacked out.

### ~V~V~V~

The raid was a mess.

Autobot SpecOps had been watching this base for a long time, convinced that Starscream was using it to create something particularly nasty for his. Given his position in the Decepticon weapons’ development program the regularity and secretive nature of his visits couldn’t mean anything else.

So to find nothing but an average Decepticon base after finally getting authorisation to target the facility was _incredibly_ frustrating.

“Several escape pods activated during the raid.” Prowl reminded his aggravated team, trying to ease a headache by rubbing at the base of his chevron. “Track them and bring them in. There might have been Agents on the inside when we went in.”

“Understood.”

### ~V~V~V~

He lay in darkness for a long, long time after the engines ran out of fuel and cycled down.

Even the engex forced into the pod’s tank had finally run out.

It was still moving forward, however.

Carried by inertia, just like the broken mech himself.

He no longer knew why he was trying to escape, why he was trying to survive when offlining would be much, much easier.

It was the same stubborn something that had compelled him to do anything needed to survive on the streets, had driven him to fight his way out of the gutters.

So he did what was necessary, funnelling engex into the fuel tank and breaking one of the bottles, using a razor-edges piece of silicate to saw through the straps of the ring gag, throwing the hideous thing as far away as he could.

After that there was nothing to do but stay still, conserve energy, wait.

And even that wasn’t working any more.

His frame was slowly powering down, systems prioritising survival and shutting down all nonessential functions. Loosely curled into himself on the tiny pull-down berth, Deadlock assessed his physical status. Even without his HUD, long familiarity with the effects of starvation and physical abuse made one thing absolutely clear.

Injuries and lack of fuel meant that Mortilus would soon have his due.

Deadlock’s spark would be consigned to the Pit, where it belonged.

_About fragging time, too. I’m tired of this._

Light broke into the darkness that was his world, bright headlights sweeping through the gloom that filled the escape pod’s tiny cabin.

“ _You?_ ”

Familiar voice, familiar accent.

Deadlock almost smiled.

He knew this mech. _Of course_ Death would take this form.

“Who else would it be?” He rasped.

The shape came closer, resolving into a blurry shape that could only be a medic called Ratchet. One-time saviour of Dead End refuse and current Autobot CMO.

The one mech Deadlock trusted enough to willingly follow him out of this functioning.

His broken, underpowered optics wouldn’t focus properly. Ratchet seemed to be haloed in light as he approached and bent over Deadlock, Death pretending to scan him as a medic would in order to preserve the illusion so he would go peacefully.

“This is Ratchet, I have located the survivor. Send a gurney; I need to get this mech to a Medbay _immediately_.” Death snapped, two fingers pressed to his temple in imitation of a mech sending a comm.

_Medbay. Funny thing to call the Pit. Though I’ve heard Autobots say the Pit is preferable to Ratchet’s bedside manner these days._

Deadlock couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

It was a horrible, rasping sound that had Death-as-Ratchet pressing illusionary hyposprays to exposed lines in his neck. The cool relief of mild analgesics creeping through his systems felt remarkably real; Deadlock could only assume that he had entered final shutdown.

He was finally dying. He was finally free.

The pain was all that had been keeping him awake and aware. With even a little of it removed Deadlock smiled, fixed his optics on the familiar faceplates of his one-time saviour and gratefully allowed unconsciousness to claim him.

_Maybe I won’t frag up so bad next time around._

### ~V~V~V~

Ratchet charged towards the medical wing, staring down at the battered, filthy form on the gurney with a strong feeling of unreality.

Deadlock.

Even after having carried out emergency repairs to stabilise the mech on the transport back to Iacon he _still_ couldn’t believe it.

The Decepticons had declared Deadlock killed in action a decade ago.

_What the frag was he_ doing _there?_

"Absolutely _not_ , Ratchet." Prowl snapped, coming alongside and keeping up easily.

"What?!" He demanded, aware that he sounded defensive.

"I _know_ that look, Ratchet." Prowl said quellingly. "You will _not_ take him on as a Cause. He's supposed to be dead, let him go. We've been losing too many medics lately to risk you in some mad quest to redeem the enemy.” The Praxian glanced down, optics widening as he took in the state of the unconscious mech. “From the looks of him, letting him die would be the merciful thing to do."

Ratchet looked down again at the grimy frame on the gurney.

Deadlock was missing at least half of his armour, his exposed protoform and substructure showing the accumulated marks of what had to be _years_ of systematic torture and abuse. Between the gag that SpecOps had found in the escape pod and the damage visible on Deadlock’s emaciated frame Ratchet knew it would indeed be more merciful to allow the mech to offline peacefully. Reviving the mech and forcing him to live with the memories of what he'd endured hounding his every waking moment would be indescribably cruel.

But something in him refused to even consider the option of letting Deadlock die.

_I don't know why, but I just_ can't _give up on this one. I couldn't then and I can't now..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock has been kept on a R+D base somewhere in the Cybertronian solar system.  
> I don't know why Ratchet was on the medical team for that raid. He keeps doing reckless, stupid things in this fic.


	4. Not Dead, Not Mortilus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock wakes up.  
> It could have gone better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Deadlock has a panic attack halfway through the chapter.
> 
> Song for this chapter: [Davy Jones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fur86y7dQJ4)

Even after cleaning the mech down several times and carrying out multiple extensive and time-consuming surgeries in an attempt to restore his battered frame, Ratchet still couldn’t quite accept the evidence of his optics.

_How can it be him? I don’t… I don’t understand how, but it’s_ him _._

The filthy, battered mech they'd found adrift in space was the same leaker he'd saved in Rodion, way back before all of this began. A mech who'd been declared dead so long ago that everyone, including Ratchet, had assumed it to be true.

Even though nothing more than a few scraps of armour had ever been recovered.

_Deadlock_.

The kinds of injuries Ratchet and his team had repaired could only have come from prolonged torture. Even though the escape pod had been positively identified as being from that pointless raid on one of Starscream’s stomping grounds, Prowl and Optimus had still confronted Autobot SpecOps about Deadlock’s state.

_Ops swears none of ours had him. Given how much intel they could have gotten out of him if they_ did _have him I'm inclined to believe they’re telling the truth._

For now Deadlock was alone in a small, heavily-fortified isolation room normally used to house Ops and Intelligence operatives freshly returned from a mission. Autobot Intelligence knew about Ratchet’s history with this particular Decepticon and thought it would make Deadlock more cooperative if he was to awaken with only the medic present. Then Optimus had gotten involved. So even though Ratchet was alone in the room with Deadlock he still had Jazz and a PsyOps specialist on a dedicated comm channel, as well as backup waiting right outside the door.

Not that Deadlock would be able to do anything, in any case. They’d disabled most of his motor relays to keep him from thrashing around and ripping open his half-set welds. But Command would only allow this to happen if Ratchet had backup, so they went ahead with what the CMO considered to be a ludicrous waste of resources.

_They’re a bunch of neurotic fusspots. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, slag it!_

They were going to force the Decepticon to come online slowly. A full medical reboot was required after the deep work needed to remove the kinds of nasty hacks and viruses they’d found in Deadlock’s systems.

Ratchet never wanted to see the like of them again.

He stood beside Deadlock’s medberth and tucked heat-retaining tarps over the mech’s still form, careful not to catch or tangle the drips feeding vital fluids back into the speedster’s lines. Over the top went a weighted blanket that should _hopefully_ counteract some of the vulnerability he would no doubt feel, being so scantily armoured. Once Ratchet was sure Deadlock was covered enough to not immediately panic about his missing plating he initiated the medical reboot and kept an optic the monitors as the speedster slowly powered up.

Cracked red optics flickered and lit slowly, a dim garnet glow banishing the lingering ghost of a similar scene in The Den so many hundreds of years earlier. Deadlock's optics focused slowly, taking in the ceiling as a frown crept onto his faceplates,

“Alive?”

It was one word and it crackled with static but Deadlock sounded far saner than Ratchet expected, considering the circumstances in which he'd been found.

"You're alive, alright.” Ratchet said acerbically. Deadlock's helm turned to fix him with a wary, slightly unfocused stare as Ratchet continued, “Which is strange considering your side declared you dead ten years ago.”

“Ten… ten years?” Deadlock rasped, monitors attached to his frame starting to register dangerous spikes in activity across multiple systems. “ _Ten years?_ ”

“Ratchet, calm him down _now_.” The little Psy-Ops mech snapped through comms, demanding the obvious as Deadlock started to shake.

### ~V~V~V~

Ten years… He’d been Starscream’s plaything for _ten fragging years_.

The length of time was _nothing_ next to his centuries on the street; but the simple fact that _it had been years_ confirmed every poisonous word Starscream had purred into Deadlock’s audials during his ordeal.

_Expendable, replaceable, just another hole to fuck, cannon fodder that can hold a gun, a buymech who can shoot, not special, not noteworthy in any way, Megatron could have picked anyone out of the crowd that day, Deadlock just happened to be in the right place at the right time, just a buymech who got lucky._

Deadlocks’ desperately overheating frame ached as if he’d been kicked around by several triplechangers, spark trying to burn a way out through his chest. Nearly deafened by the roaring in his audials he sucked in desperate gulps of air through vents that whined in protest, unmaintained fans clattering. His engine squealed unhealthily and nearly stalled.

_It_ was _years… he was right… he was_ right _..._

A vaguely familiar EMF pulsed against his, filled with the distinctive Medic resonances all mechanisms –Forged _or_ Created Cold- were hardcoded to respond to. Someone was speaking, asking him to focus on his venting and try to bring his spark’s flaring back to normal ranges. Deadlock tried, obedient to the influence of Medical Authority and that _something_ within him that demanded he live, the same something that had dragged him from the gutters and up through the ranks, the very same something that had forced him out of Starscream’s torture chamber and into that escape pod.

But Starscream’s words still looped uncontrollably in his processors, drowning out the sensible Medic-delivered advice, rendering him incapable of focusing. Something gave out internally and suddenly Deadlock was floundering, moaning and dizzy as waves of nausea and disorientation flowed over him as his gyros fritzed and empty tanks threatened to leap right up his intakes.

A sudden blast of air against his faceplates and Deadlock turned his helm towards it with the desperation of a drowning mech. The airflow oriented him, gave him a focus point, gave his systems something they _understood_ and could handle better than the sucking mire of deliberate cruelty. The air itself was sterile and vaguely stale and tainted with the chemical tang of compressed gases but it was _moving air_ and it worked magic on Deadlock’s overstressed frame as it flowed over his finials and helm intakes like the breath of life itself. His gyros recalibrated without prompting and overloaded systems slid back into normal operational ranges.

The world righted itself with an almost audible thump and Deadlock was lying on a slab in a Medbay with a frowning medic leaning over him and blasting compressed air into his face.

“You back with me now?” The vaguely familiar red-and-white blur of medic asked, “I’m going to slow this down a bit and then I’ll get it out of your face. You just had a panic attack; this is a little trick that helps Speedsters and Flightframes get back in touch with reality when you start freaking out like that.”

Deadlock grumbled an acknowledgement, feeling his systems continue to settle as the blast of canned air slowed and stopped. He felt the loss keenly and was on the verge of asking for it back before he got control of himself. He was confused after the medical boot and groggy from the combined effects of the painkillers and pain blockers in his systems.

The blessed lack of pain told Deadlock that wherever he was it was mostly safe. He marvelled at the sensation, luxuriating in it. Groggy as he was his mind still felt amazingly fast without the damage warnings and pain bogging him down. The medic was speaking again but Deadlock ignored him, struggling to make sense of his HUD after he reflexively checked for damage reports.

_What the frag?_

There was _so much information_ Deadlock found it difficult to comprehend. It was almost impossible for him to process the full spread of an unaltered display after having gotten used to the butchered one Starscream had forced on him.

Helpful glyphic notations even informed Deadlock that his weapons systems were disabled via medical override, alongside his T-Cog, EM sensors and main motor relays. An apparently infinite list of repairs scrolling past told him why.

It looked like right now he was made of nothing but replacement parts held together by welds and patches.

Entranced, Deadlock stared at his restored HUD until an offensive pop-snap noise right beside his audial dragged his attention back to the outside world and the red-and-white blur of medic standing beside his circuit slab. The general dimensions of the warped and fuzzy shapes his damaged optics reported gave him an intense feeling of déjà vu. Only the red blob of an Autobrand and a nagging awareness of missing armour kept Deadlock’s memory of the past from overlaying the present.

“You’re _real?_ ” He slurred, the analgesics apparently removing his ability to control his vocaliser along with pain.

“Of course I’m _real_.” Ratchet sounded amused, the vague outline of an arm moved and warm pressure rested against the armour of Deadlock’s shoulder.

It was a neutral touch that his frame didn’t know how to respond to, so Deadlock tried his best to ignore it.

“Huh. Y’are.” Deadlock was trying and failing to make sense of how the last memories in his cache matched with what appeared to be reality. “Thought y’ were Mortilus.”

The warm pressure vanished from his shoulder as Ratchet burst into laughter. It was the uninhibited, natural sound of that laughter that convinced Deadlock’s muddled processors that this definitely wasn’t a hallucination or a hacking attempt.

_Could never imagine_ him _laughing._

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re going to have to deal with us instead.” Ratchet said, amusement quickly fading from his voice. “As I think you know, you’re in Autobot custody. Our Intel mechs have sworn up and down that none of ours had anything to do with the state we found you in. Given that you were in an escape pod linked to one of Starscream’s favourite bases…”

The rest of Ratchet’s words vanished into static as Deadlock’s processors seized. The stark reminder of _why he was here on this slab_ shattered the vague sense of disbelief that had been sustaining him. Trapped and immobile, the broken mech took the only escape available and threw himself into unconsciousness.


	5. Operation Flotsam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock begins to recover while the Autobots try to figure out what to do with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Annihilation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVW8ih-519k) [A Perfect Circle], [What is dead my never die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niQoEPGvtHk) \+ [Valar Mourghulis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DfzdEnQFyGc) [Ramin Djawadi]

“That reaction answers the question of who did this to him.” Prowl said with finality.

The mechanisms involved in ‘Operation Flotsam’ watched as video footage of Deadlock’s spectacularly brief period of awareness replayed. Given evidence, nobody could really argue with Prowl’s conclusion.

“We would have learned more _if_ Ratchet had followed instructions.” Rung observed quietly.

Prowl chose to ignore the comment and consulted a datapad. “He must have been taken during the fall of Praxus.”

“Screamer was the one who reported the Flotsam offline,” Jazz pointed out, visor flickering as he accessed remotely-stored information. “He gave Megs bits of armour and his badge, sayin’ it was all that could be found. Now that I think about it, they were surprisingly _intact_ bits for a mech that was blown to bits.” Jazz hummed thoughtfully, tapping his extended claws rhythmically on the tabletop. “It fits with what our Agents were reportin’ just before Flotsam supposedly died. Looks like Screamer saw him as a threat and took him out, getting’ a little revenge in the process.”

“That is conjecture _at best_ and will remain so until the Flotsam can give us his version of events.” Prowl said. He glared at the head of SpecOps, who acknowledged the stare by flicked him a mocking salute. “Until then, we need to ensure that his presence remains secret. Ratchet, his medical status?”

### ~V~V~V~

Deadlock’s second awakening was longer and less eventful than his first.

 _This_ time he came up from medical reboot to find an additional message on his HUD warning him against trying to deliberately crash his processor again. Deadlock ignored it, cancelling the annoying message and savouring the little thrill he got from being able to do so.

 _Still can’t move but I can do_ that _._

“In case you just dismissed that warning without letting it sink in, I’ll repeat myself.” A familiar voice growled somewhere nearby. “If you _ever_ try such a damn fool move again I’ll make sure every reboot for the rest of your functioning is accompanied by the sound of Ironhide singing in the washracks.”

Deadlock didn’t quite know what to make of that threat.

“Besides, we’ve corrected the glitch that lets you do it.” The familiar voice continued and Deadlock started trying to get his optics to come online. “At least, we’ve corrected the errors it’s been causing when you do it and _hopefully_ the next time you try the process fails and you don’t end up permanently offline.”

Deadlock kept silent on his opinion regarding permanently offlining himself. It was an incredibly tempting prospect right now, but he suspected that telling this to the grumpy medic would cause nothing but trouble. Staying more-or-less compliant, Deadlock responded to Ratchet’s questions with wordless grunts, waiting for the medic to leave again before falling into more natural recharge.

He ended up spending most of his time in that room sleeping, the anaesthetic dosage and coding painblockers being decreased as his frame healed. While he was still drugged to the back teeth Deadlock found endless entertainment and comfort in watching his chronometer track the actual passage of time.

 _I know how long I’ve been here, for_ real _this time and not because someone else told me._

As the drugs decreased and Deadlock’s processor cleared thinking became easier. Now he found himself forcing more recharge than he would normally require even for healing, desperate to escape his memories and the return to the Broken Mech that the replays heralded. Watching time pass on his HUD, Deadlock searched for a reason to exist. He’d always had one before and without one he felt hollow, aimless and ineffective. 

 _Someone needs to make him_ pay _. And nobody else’ll do that for me, so it needs to be me._

Revenge.

Hunger for revenge slowly but surely buried the Broken Mech as it became the sole reason for Deadlock’s existence. It drove him, gave him the will to persevere and obey stupid medical orders and be a good patient for weeks, _months_ on end.

Good patients healed faster, rehabilitated faster.

Got out of medical to kill their enemies faster.

So Deadlock did what he was told, drank what he was told, forced his frame through silly rehabilitation exercises and plotted the many, many ways he could take the Winglord out when he was _finally_ back on his pedes.

His good behaviour seemed to surprise Ratchet at first.

It seemed that Autobots didn’t make very good patients.

This discovery didn’t surprise Deadlock at all; Autobots were stupid by definition so _of course_ they wouldn’t know the best way to get out of a medberth was to obey the medics. When questioned about his compliance Deadlock didn’t hesitate to speak his mind, earning a started look and another of those gloriously free-sounding laughs from Ratchet. Deadlock smirked with satisfaction, enjoying the light brush of Ratchet’s friendly Field and projecting a sense of gratification back.

The medic knew Deadlock was right, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

As he healed the code blocks on his mobility were lifted one by one, returning more mobility to the speedster as welds set and scar tissue formed. Steady fuel and rest were gradually restoring his frame and his self-repair was finally working at something close to an optimal level. Each time a block on a part of his frame was removed any kind of exaltation Deadlock felt was quickly stomped flat by new therapeutic exercises to reaccustom the part to movement and ensure his neural lines were ‘doing their job’.

The first time another medical mech accompanied Ratchet into the isolation unit Deadlock froze. He fought down waves of panic as an unfamiliar maroon-and-white blur separated from Ratchet and moved to the opposite side of the medberth.

Surrounding him with enemy frames while he was barely armoured and functionally helpless.

Threatened, Deadlock bared his fangs in a snarl at the unfamiliar medic, his engine rumbling powerfully despite the unhealthy knocking sound from his underused and off-balance pistons.

“Forceps is here to help with the next stage of your physical therapy.” Ratchet snapped, projecting annoyance and delivering a sharp flick to Deadlock’s finial. Most of the sensors in his extremities were still offline so it didn’t really hurt him so much as give the speedster an unpleasant surprise. “So quit that growling.”

Quicker than thought, Deadlock’s helm whipped around and he sank pointed denta deep into the side of Ratchet’s hand, biting down and snarling. The medic went rigid and his Field flared briefly with agony before it retracted out of sensing range.

Something pricked at his exposed neck cabling on the other side and Deadlock clamped down harder, snarling up at the large red-and-white blurs hovering over him. Icy cold trickled through his frame, weakening Deadlock and taking him down into darkness accompanied by the sweet taste of energon and tang of damaged circuitry.

When he woke again nobody said anything about the bite, but Ratchet kept his hands well away from Deadlock’s mouth after that, even when helping the mech readjust to consuming fuel normally again. Deadlock’s current lack of coordination on top of slowly integrating replacement parts meant that even feeding himself from a cube like a normal mech required the aid of someone else until his frame was working normally again.

If that hadn’t been enough, the Autobots had also replaced his atrophied and weakened fuel tank and kept Deadlock on intravenous feeds until it integrated properly.

Now that it had, Deadlock was to endure assisted fuelling and all its associated indignity until he could pick up a cube without knocking it over, dropping it or accidentally tipping sticky medical blends all over the place.

At any other time the way Ratchet seemed to brace himself when putting his hands within range of Deadlock’s denta would have been gratifying; now it was just annoying. It also produced a vague sense of discomfort deep inside Deadlock that he didn’t want to look at too closely, especially since the glares and obvious disapproval from Forceps and another medic designated First Aid didn’t bother him at all. Whenever he felt their disapproval he just smiled at their blurry shapes, making sure they saw his fangs.

Apparently right now the only thing Ratchet disapproved of was the speed at which Deadlock’s self-repair was handling certain aspects of his recovery.

Like his optics, for example.

Despite Deadlock’s aggressive bristling and warning growls Ratchet held the speedster’s chin in a firm grip, scanning his optics with his own inbuilt equipment and then an external device, frowning at the display.

“Those optic lenses aren’t healing as they should.” Ratchet announced, releasing Deadlock and whipping his hand out of the way before the bad-tempered mech could bite again. He wouldn’t, but Ratchet didn’t seem to realise it. “Your self-repair has too much to do; it’ll be more efficient for us to replace them.”

“I’ll pass.” Deadlock’s voice was flat and hard; he didn’t want to be knocked out again. “I can see just fine.”

“That’s a pile of slag.” Ratchet was fast running out of patience. Not that the CMO had much on the best of days, as Deadlock knew very well; his only source of entertainment at the moment was provoking the medical staff or getting them to gossip. “If I leave those lenses in the scarring will have you functionally blind for centuries. As funny as that would be to watch I’m _not_ wasting time on injuries caused by you running into things. You’ve exactly got two options: either you tell me a colour or I’m choosing one for you.”

Deadlock was shocked. He cycled his optics and peered owlishly up at Ratchet, trying to focus properly and get a decent look at the mech though the fractured lenses of his optics.

“I can _choose?_ ”

The thoughts tumbled over themselves in Deadlock’s mind, honestly astonished that Ratchet would be giving him a choice in optic colour. If anything, he’d honestly expected them to just give him Autobot Blue. Letting him choose was something so little it was almost like they were throwing him a sop to his dignity, as if they could afford to humour Deadlock.

But then again, his captors had no real reason to allow him the choice in the first place. There was absolutely nothing for the Autobots to gain from this.

 _Mind games_.

“Don’t give me that look.” Ratchet snapped defensively, crossing his arms over the diagnostic suite concealed in his chest and shifting his weight from pede to pede.

“Yellow.” The word slipped out without permission. “Give me yellow lenses.”

For a moment Ratchet seemed almost as taken aback as Deadlock was, but the medic recovered faster.

“I’ll see what we have in stock.” He said before walking out.

Left to his own devices again, Deadlock turned his request over in his processors, trying to figure out why he’d asked for his old optic colour back.

Not the colour identifying not one of the most feared warriors in existence.

The colour he’d worn as a street-dwelling, drug-addicted leaker who sold his frame to survive.

 _Drift’s_ colour. Not Deadlock’s.

 _No slagging way do I want Autobot Blue. And if I got the red back… every time I saw my reflection I’d see_ him _. I’d rather see Drift in the mirror again than look like_ him _._

Satisfied with his own conclusions, Deadlock settled himself comfortably on the medberth and initiated recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone who already spotted Ratchet's issues regarding his own safety is allowed to be very smug right now ^.^


	6. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock does a lot of thinking and meets more Autobots as he progresses towards health.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Freedom of Choice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnLyLu6Wpcg) [A Perfect Circle], [Faster](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lNNYrlCeDI) [Within Temptation]
> 
> I apologise in advance for any clunky grammar in this chapter. I'm currently at the stage of relapse where my brain doesn't do the words thing very well :/

Deadlock stared at his reflection, thinking.

His new lenses were an odd shade of amber-gold, as different from the smoky yellow of his originals ones as the deep red colour he’d worn as a Decepticon.

_What am I now?_ Who _am I now?_

The thick, reinforced plating he’d added over his chestplates and the Decepticon badge attached to it were long gone. A badge shaped from the very metal of his sparkchamber. Deadlock pressed the palm of his hand to the empty place where it had been.

He didn’t know what had happened to it. Or if he’d ever get it back.

_My beliefs aren’t any different. I would do the same again_.

He couldn’t deny that the Decepticons had changed even as he had changed.

_Would I go back?_

It was a question he couldn’t answer.

The fact that Starscream had been able to do what he’d done made Deadlock feel extremely uneasy about the idea of returning.

And that was _before_ he started thinking about why Megatron hadn’t bothered looking for him

When Deadlock put those considerations aside there was also the fact that he wasn’t sure anymore if the Decepticons were still fighting for the same reasons they'd been fighting at the start. So much had changed in a few short centuries. Now that he had something like distance he could see the change clearly and he wasn’t sure what to do, Starscream’s claims about his lack of value notwithstanding.

Right now Deadlock just wasn’t sure if he would return to the Decepticons, given the chance.

Even if he was guaranteed Starscream’s sparkchamber for a drinking vessel.

One thing he did know for sure though; there was still no way he would be an Autobot.

Stuck in this room, seeing only medics and Jazz (whose extremely casual questioning seemed more like trash-talk tennis than an actual interrogation) gave him no evidence to suggest that the Autobots these days were any different to the corrupt Senate of old and the puppet Primes they had controlled.

_I know Ratchet is all right, and Jazz could almost be a ‘Con… That’s not enough, though._

A few days later the Autobots decided it was time to inflict a new torture upon Deadlock.

At least, he thought it was _supposed_ to be torture, it could very well be a way of testing the limits of his good behaviour.

Deadlock had been physically stable for a while, able to drink from a cube by himself without spilling and for the last week or so he could even concentrate on a conversation without starved and underpowered processors wandering, so he was feeling more curious than hostile when a new mech accompanied Ratchet into ‘his’ isolation unit. Deadlock still eyed the newcomer with suspicion, carrying out a threat-assessment that was second nature to him.

Whoever this mech was, they lacked proper kibble; something which creeped Deadlock out until the short mech turned around and he saw a pair of tyres sitting just behind the mech;s shoulders and a third one lower down orange backpates. The mech was thin-plated and barely topped minibot height, covered in bright orange plating barely worth calling ‘armour’ that would do nothing but make him a walking target on the battlefield. There was only one conclusion Deadlock could come to without seeing the mech transform.

_Another slag-crazy Intel mech… or a Mnemosurgeon._

Then Ratchet introduced Short and Creepy and his explanation of the small mech’s reason for being there confirmed Deadlock’s assessment. He didn’t bother trying to remember the mech’s name, dodging his questions with blatant hostility.

_Therapist my aft. He’s Ops, I’m sure of it._

As time wore on and their sessions continued sheer boredom wore Deadlock down and he started answering more-or-less honestly, just for something to do. He asked his own questions too, of course. Deadlock started out just trying to provoke a reaction from the unnaturally calm little mech but gradually shifted to pursuing information; trying to figure out what was going on outside the secure medical room and what these Autobots thought they were fighting for.

If the little mech wasn’t lying to him then the Autobots were bigger hypocrites than the old Senate so Deadlock put it out of mind. By this time he had progressed being able to walk short distances unaided, forcing himself through a few more staggering steps each day. All of his energy was now focusing on getting back to full functionality so he could hunt Starscream down and tear his wings off.

As Deadlock was weaned off the sedatives bad memory purges became common events during recharge . He thrashed his way off the berth so often that he seriously considered sleeping on the floor, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it when he had a perfectly comfortable berth right there.

Several times he was woken from a particularly bad memory purge by the familiar voice and Field of CMO Ratchet. He welcomed the medic’s no-nonsense approach and lack of pity after these memory purges even though the medic _still_ flinched whenever his hands came within range of Deadlock’s denta. It was actually starting to get on the speedster’s nerves but he was usually too busy trying to piece together the shattered remains of his self-control after vivid recollections of Starscream’s violations to confront the medic about this stupid grudge.

_He needs to get the slag over it already_.

When Ratchet _finally_ declared him healed enough for armour the weird little Psy-Ops guy brought someone new to where Deadlock was still being held. The Decepticon assessed and dismissed the tall, lanky mech in the flicker of an optic. This mech was obviously a scientist and even more obviously non-threatening.

And in _dire_ need of a babysitter.

When Deadlock demanded to see the armour designs the nerd had come up with –instead of just hearing about the specs in excruciating detail- the scientist pulled a datapad from subspace and walked _straight up to Deadlock’s berth_ , right into his reach, put the datapad on the berth where the deadly Decepticon could see it and began paging through screen after screen of diagrams and options and technical specifications, continuing his monologue as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

As if he wasn’t gambling with his own life.

Even one-third armoured and armed with only his denta and the regrowing stubs of his claws Deadlock could take this wide-eyed civilian out in a sparkbeat.

This scientist, this ‘Perceptor’, had to be the most insanely naïve person Deadlock had ever met.

_He’s gonna get himself killed if he keeps that up._

The idiot nerd kept taking right up until Forceps returned to kick both Perceptor and Rung out, leaving a bemused Deadlock to consume his evening round of fuel and medications in blissful quiet.

It took four days for the wordy mech to explain everything to his own satisfaction and a solid week of arguments with Deadlock and any medic who was the designated Decepticon-watcher (Or Scientist-sitter; Deadlock wasn’t sure which was actually the case here) until they came up with a design that was acceptable to everyone and Perceptor departed to fabricate new armour according to the specs they'd finally settled on.

Deadlock’s small hospital cell was nowhere near big enough for anyone over cassette size to re-armour in, so when the freshly fabricated pieces arrived the process of attaching them to his frame was carried out in the main medical ward. The place was emptied of patients and secured just for the occasion, and for once Deadlock wasn’t sure who they were trying to protect with these precautions.

Ratchet was the only mech Deadlock trusted to help him carry out such a sensitive procedure; he wasn’t at all confident that the other Autobot medics would be able to resist the temptation to take advantage of his unprotected state and take a little incidental revenge during the process. He wasn’t sure what the Decepticons had done recently, but both Forceps and First Aid seemed to be particularly angry with Deadlock at the moment and he really couldn’t be bothered murdering either of them.

Safer for everyone concerned to let Ratchet do it.

Part-way through Deadlock started to wonder if he might have been safer with one of the other medics after all.

Ratchet seemed uncomfortable as he helped the speedster attach and connect to the swooping pieces of dull primer-grey metal Perceptor had created; pulling away the instant Deadlock’s neural net accepted each piece. His Field was so withdrawn Deadlock couldn’t sense it, even when Ratchet’s hands accidentally brushed across his protoform. Each fleeting touch seemed to leave a trail of tingling heat behind that he couldn’t explain. Unsettled, Deadlock tried to get Ratchet talking in an attempt to distract himself from his frame’s bizarre reactions to the medic’s touch.

It helped a little and inevitably their conversation turned towards the mech responsible for designing and fabricating Deadlock’s new armour.

“Lock him in a lab and throw away the key.” Deadlock said, completely serious. “Mechs like that’re a danger to themselves and everyone around them on the front lines.”

“Well, lucky for your guys he’s not going anywhere _near_ the front lines.” Ratchet said acerbically, sliding curving sections of armour into place over Deadlock’s thighs. “We’re not that hard-up for snipers yet.”

Deadlock cycled his optics in surprise, trying to process _that_ little revelation about the quietly animated genius when a crashing sound interrupted him. The door to the main ward flew open and a familiar golden-yellow warrior stomped through, scowling and carrying one of his own arms. A rough patch over the truncated stump of his shoulder leaked a slow trickle of energon down his side.

It made Deadlock hungry. For what, he wasn’t sure.

“SUNSTREAKER, THAT WAS LOCKED.” “What the _slag_ happened to you?”

Ratchet and Deadlock spoke at the same time but Sunstreaker chose to answer his fellow warrior, ignoring the medic who was holding one of Deadlock’s shin guards like a throwing knife.

“Accident.” He said tersely. Blue optics slid over Deadlock’s frame in a clinical appraisal that made the Decepticon feel naked. “You’re gonna need a repaint.”

Deadlock was bored enough to argue, saying it didn’t matter and he was happy with the primer. At that point _both_ Autobots teamed up on him and systematically countered everything he could come up with against being repainted . It was entertainment, at least. And it kept his mind off his frame as Ratchet helped him through the rest of the re-armouring process and moved on to test his mobility with the new pieces.

When Deadlock finally surrendered to the combined forces of both Autobots, Sunstreaker insisted on a change in colour scheme. His suggestion was something crisp and high-contrast that wouldn’t do anything except make Deadlock a giant target.

So _naturally_ Deadlock disagreed with the idea.

The way Ratchet and Sunstreaker neatly shot down every single one of his objections made Deadlock suspect that the entire situation was a setup, especially as Ratchet moved right from checking Deadlock’s range of motion to ripped the patch off Sunstreaker’s shoulder without so much as twitching. He began working on reattaching the golden mech’s severed arm while the two warriors argued colour schemes in language so coarse it could easily have stripped the paint from all three of their frames.

Eventually Deadlock and Sunstreaker compromised and settled on a colour scheme that was acceptable to both of them; a matt pewter grey accented with deep ruby and golden highlights to match his biolights and the new optics.

The complementary highlights were an Autobot conceit and one Deadlock only accepted after he caught Ratchet shooting him a thoughtful little glance, as if imagining how he’d look in the subtle trim Sunstreaker described.

_And all of these changes will make it just that_ little _bit harder for Screamer to see me coming…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Deadlock explains the 'can't remember Rung's name' thing to himself as 'can't be bothered remembering' -.-; He comes up with rather uncomplimentary nicknames.  
> ~If Percy isn't careful he's gonna get adopted. (Because Deadlock hasn't seen him shoot yet)  
> ~First Aid and Forceps have a MASSIVE grudge against Deadlock right now. They had to repair the damage to Ratchet's hand.  
> ~The Suntreaker incident was staged, because Rung is being a smart bugger and trying to introduce Deadlock to more people in a controlled fashion. (The entire arm coming off /was/ an accident)  
> ~Sunny's first suggestion for colours was mostly white...
> 
>  
> 
> Based on comments from the last few chapters, I just want to say that this ISN'T going to be a rape-and-revenge fic. While the commissioner requested something similar to my fic 'Broken', that hackneyed trope thankfully didn't fit into what the Boss wanted with this story. The intense thirst for revenge currently driving Deadlock is part of how I imagine his character to be at this point in time, especially as he has learned how good it feels to kick those who once kicked you when you were down.


	7. Call Me Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a day of changes and new things as Deadlock turns the entire Iacon base upside down with a few sentences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [All you did was save my life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfrGZuFrJnE) [Our Lady Peace], [Feuer Frei!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZkW-K5RQdzo) [Rammstein]

Deadlock knew what most mechs thought of Sunstreaker and his twin, but he _understood_ his fellow front-line fighters in a way no civilian-born mech could; on top of that he also _knew_ gladiators and the gold and red warriors were both of those things.

He wasn’t at all worried about Sunstreaker attacking him out of nowhere. If Sunstreaker was going to attack with intent to kill then they would both be armed and Deadlock himself would be in a position to fight back. So naturally when it came time for his full repaint Deadlock was far calmer than Ratchet about the situation.

It was a novel feeling to have someone worrying about him, even when he was going to be perfectly safe. Deadlock firmly suppressed the urge to call it cute, even within the privacy of his own processors.

That was dangerous territory he didn’t want to wander into. No matter _what_ stupid questions the little orange mech asked during their ‘sessions’.

_Still, nobody’s worried about me like this since…_

Deadlock pushed the uncomfortable thoughts aside and focused on patience while Sunstreaker worked. Turning and flaring plates and holding awkward, potentially catastrophic positions without a moment’s hesitation, absolutely confident in his read of the golden warrior. Not only the mech was a gladiator but right now he was an artist at work. Deadlock had seen the type before and thought he knew what to expect.

“How do you expect me to pay you back for this?” Deadlock asked bluntly when they were on to the final details.

Sunstreaker grunted, considering the question as he brushed thin red stripes onto Deadlock’s pauldrons.

“Don’t need to. I’m being paid for this.” He said eventually. “If you think you need to pay me back then spar with me and Sides.”

It was the closest to outright laughter Deadlock had come in centuries.

“You’re fragging _joking_.” He said flatly, ignoring the obvious question.

_Who the slag would be paying him to do this?_

“Nope.” Sunstreaker finished the left pauldron and moved around to do the other one, walking in front of Deadlock instead of behind. “You’ve got that twitchy look and I know they won’t let you out on the tracks. Sparring or fragging’s next best for dealing with it and given how long you’ve been stuck in Medical I’d say punching someone would feel _real_ good right now.”

Deadlock bit his glossa as a million possible retorts flooded through his processor. He stayed silent while Sunstreaker kept talking; he was either trying to distract Deadlock or else the chance to exercise a talent that wasn’t about killing made him more talkative than usual.

“Ratchet’s the same but the stubborn aft won’t race, won’t spar with anyone but Prowl or SpecOps and refuses to shack up with anyone who could become a patient.” Sunstreaker’s engine growled, EMF suddenly boiling with protective rage.

From the quality of that anger Deadlock got the feeling that the twins had somehow adopted Ratchet, their fractured gladiator coding latching on to the CMO and making him their blood-brother whether he liked it or not. He waited for Sunstreaker to bring up the fragging option, possibly with the names of those anyone on base who would be up for a casual frag.

None were forthcoming and Deadlock realised that his reactions when Sunstreaker painted certain areas of his frame would be why.

 _Probably shouldn’t underestimate him_ off _the battlefield, either._

“I’ll spar with you two. And I’ll see if I can bait Ratchet into a tool-throwing contest or something.” Deadlock decided aloud, deliberately _not_ thinking about Ratchet in berth. _Anyone’s_ berth. “Punching someone sounds _really_ fragging good right about now.”

Sunstreaker might have muttered something about Ratchet and a different kind of tool, but the words were lost under the clatter of the air compressor starting up. Then Deadlock was forced to seal his vents so the warrior could apply a layer of clear enamel to seal his work and encourage the nanites in the paint to bond with and colonise the layer of primer covering the new armour. During this process Deadlock also dialled his audial reception down to block out the noise of the compressor, trying not to remember the feel of gentle red hands on his protoform.

By the time Sunstreaker put down the airbrush nozzle Deadlock had forgotten to ask the mech what he meant.

When Ratchet arrived – _probably checking to make sure we haven’t killed each other_ \- Deadlock was helping Sunstreaker tidy up, disassembling the airbrush equipment as Sunstreaker apparently didn’t trust anyone but himself with his paints and brushes.

The medic’s dim biolights were the first thing that caught Deadlock’s attention; his suspicions growing as he also noticed the crankier-than-normal expression on the familiar faceplates and noticeably slower movements. Then Ratchet got a good look at Deadlock’s new paintjob and he froze, optics going wide and failing to brighten normally as he focused on the freshly repainted speedster.

“You fuelled lately?” Deadlock demanded. Ratchet gave him a confused look so he re-worded the question. “When was the last time you fuelled?”

Sunstreaker muttered something that made Deadlock simmer with rage.

“You need a slagging _babysitter_.” He snapped, projecting frustration as he stomped towards the medic and grabbed the larger mech’s arm. “Where’s the nearest mess hall? You need something in your tanks before you pass out.”

He marched Ratchet from the room with Sunstreaker assisting, the other warrior’s Field flicking with amusement that couldn’t be read from his outwardly stoic demeanour.

Between them Deadlock and Sunstreaker managed to get Ratchet to the nearest mess hall before the exhausted mech got it into his helm to object or cause a scene. There was a brief spike in background noise from the room as first Sunstreaker and then Ratchet appeared in the doorway, some mechs calling out friendly greetings. Then Deadlock came into view and silence slowly spread across the crowded room as mechs turned to take in the new face.

Someone whistled appreciatively. “Who’s the new recruit?”

Deadlock memorised the voice and the mech that went with it, determining the best way to feed the glitch his own kibble in the split second he took to formulate his response.

“I’m a _Neutral_ , not one of you red-branded glitches.” He growled, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard clearly across the crowded room. “Designation’s **Drift**. _Use it_ if you want to keep your limbs attached to the rest of your frame.” The last sentence was delivered with a significant look at whistler-mech, who slumped down in his seat.

Then Deadlock waited, absorbing the shock Ratchet projected while he waited for the SpecOps mechs that were undoubtedly in the room to process the harmonic layers of the designation he’d just announced for himself.

On the surface it was similar to the one he’d used in the Dead End, except the pitch and inflections now implied a controlled, high-speed lateral slide instead of being carried along by outside forces. Incorporated at a layer too subtle for the average mech to catch there was also reference to his most recent designation. Deadlock smirked when a ripple of horrified surprise washed across the room, signalling that as _someone_ had teased that detail out of the new designation and spread the information around.

Now they all knew who he was.

Everyone knew _precisely_ who was standing casually beside one of their most feared berserkers and the CMO as if he had every right to be there.

 _Try to move me, slaggers. Just slagging_ try _it._

Nobody did.

Deadlock turned to Ratchet, raising an optical ridge. “So you gonna fuel or what?”

### ~V~V~V~

“Did you do that on purpose?” Ratchet demanded the instant they were back in Medical, safely away from curious optics and audials. “Did you have that crazy stunt planned or something? What the slag were you _thinking?_ ”

“I _was_ thinking about feeding that mouthy aft his own kibble.” Deadlock answered honestly. “Only plan was to make sure you got something in your tanks, and then that slag-sucker went and opened his mouth.”

It didn’t seem to mollify the medic at all. He inflated, vents hissing with rage as he loomed over the shorter speedster. His anger was a bright, clean-burning thing so unlike Starscream’s vicious rages that Deadlock didn’t even flinch when Ratchet raised a finger and poked him sharply in the chestplates.

“ _You_ need to _think_ before opening your _own_ slagging mouth.” Ratchet growled, his voice sending completely inappropriate shivers down Deadlock’s backstruts. “You just undid _all_ the work that Command and Ops have done to keep your presence here a secret.”

Gently batting Ratchet’s hand away from his chestplates Deadlock indulged himself in a low chuckle as the doors slid open and Prowl strode into the room. The wide sweep of gleaming black-and-white doorwings raised in authority behind the Praxian made Deadlock cringe away before he controlled himself. He was silently grateful that both Prowl and Ratchet pretended not to notice his reaction as the black-and-white mech approached.

“When word gets back to Megatron all he’s gonna hear is that some neutral groundframe is claiming to be a mech ten years dead.” Deadlock pointed out, focusing on Ratchet and doing his best to ignore Prowl and his doorwings. “Unless he sees the marks on my sparkchamber or Soundwave pulls it from my mind he’s got no way of knowing the truth.” His tanks churned and Deadlock fought down a wave of nausea as he realised that Soundwave _must_ have known about what Starscream had been doing and chosen not to tell Megatron. Pushing the thought aside, he matched Ratchet’s glare with one of his own and snarled. “So _calm the frag down_. What the slag are you so worried about _me_ for, anyway?”

From the way Ratchet reacted Deadlock almost thought Prowl had sent him a private comm or pinched him or something. His expression flickered too fast for Deadlock to read and then went blank as he straightened up, taking a step back from the ex-Decepticon and orienting himself to include Prowl in the argument.

“Drift is correct.” The Praxian said, referring to Deadlock with the designation variant he had announced in the rec room. “There is very little now remaining to connect him with the Decepticon known as Deadlock.” He shifted slightly, addressed the now ex-Decepticon directly. “I do not approve of your methods, but having your identity made known this way may be for the best. It will be difficult for Starscream or Soundwave to justify assassinating a neutral just because he happens to share a frametype and skillset with a deceased Decepticon officer.” Before Deadlock could get too smug the Praxian fixed him with a penetrating look. “Is your declaration of neutral status to be considered official?”

Deadlock’s processors froze for a moment, leaping back into action with a frantic scrabble. His words had been partly a way to divert attention and suspicion; trying to ensure he was allowed to stay without compromising the parts of his self that Starscream hadn’t tainted.

They had also held more truth than he realised.

He _couldn’t_ go back to the Decepticons after all, and he wasn’t sure if he _would_ go back if he had the chance. These Autobots weren’t what he expected, true, but it would be a cold day in the Pit before he let them set their brand to his plating. With these uncomfortable thoughts tumbling through his processors Deadlock feigned nonchalance, meeting appraising ice-blue optics coolly.

“May as well.” He said, rolling his shoulders in a casual shrug. “I’m not going back but I’m not joining you slaggers either.” Out of the corner of his optic Deadlock could see interesting expressions flickering across Ratchet’s faceplates while Prowl gave him an appraising look. “Only option left is neutral then, isn’t it?”

Prowl nodded and Ratchet opened his mouth to say something, but Prowl cut him off.

“I shall note your official political status in your file.” He said formally. “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have requested permission for supervised sparring sessions with you and Rung approves. I shall make the necessary arrangements. Ratchet, I will contact you in the morning.”

With that Prowl turned on his heel and left, leaving Deadlock alone with a stunned-looking CMO who was obviously beginning to gather himself for another tirade.

Deadlock couldn’t face that right now, not with the way his thoughts were currently spinning and the turmoil in his spark at renouncing his faction in such a casual and unplanned manner. He opened his mouth to tell Ratchet to slag off, but the words that poured from his vocaliser instead took him completely by surprise.

“You _know_ you’re only making Megatron’s job easier by neglecting yourself, right?” Deadlock snarled up at Ratchet. “He’s been targeting Autobot medics for _centuries_. If you haven’t figured that out by now then you need to sort yourself out. You’re _not_ expendable; get that through your helm _now_ before you end up in someone’s sights and you’re too slagging tired to dodge.”

Snapping his mouth shut before his vocaliser could get him into any more trouble, Deadlock stormed to the isolation room they’d been keeping him in and slammed the door behind him. Leaning against it, he stared up at the familiar blankness of the ceiling and deliberately ran his vents through several full cycles.

 _Where the slag did_ that _come from?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of my stupid TF Designation and Coding headcanons *shrug*
> 
> Also: These. Oblivious. IDIOTS.


	8. Friendly Neighbourhood Clue-By-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet finally clicks.  
> Deadlock is moved out of Medical and meets Sideswipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Poison](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qq4j1LtCdww) [Alice Cooper], [Timebomb](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QIpYZtp_LEA) [Pink]

_What the slag are you so worried about_ me _for, anyway?_

The words repeated over and over, accompanied by the glorious memory of a laugh. The sequence looped in Ratchet’s processors and forced him to find an answer, even if it was just for his own peace of mind.

Even if the answer he found did nothing but frazzle him further.

_Slag me in the smelter._

“So you finally figured it out, huh?”

“Frag off.”

Jazz ignored him, perching on the edge of Ratchet’s desk and grinning down at the medic. Ratchet raised his helm from where he was resting in the crook of his arm and took a long pull from his cube of highgrade.

“Yeah, you’ve figured it out.” Jazz sounded extremely smug. “I saw the camera footage. Rung’s right; you’ve got it _bad_. Both of you.”

Ratchet almost choked.

“ _Both_ of…? You’re _joking_.” Ratchet snorted, taking another swig. “No, you’ve _got_ to be pulling my leg. Besides, he’s my patient. I’m _not_ going there. You and the rest of the matchmaker pack can just sod off.”

Jazz’s laugh told Ratchet that the saboteur was going to do anything but.

“Anyway, we’ve got quarters arranged and the twins are going to help keep him entertained while Rung works in that little vengeance fixation he’s got.” Jazz announced cheerfully, swiping Ratchet’s cube for a taste. “Nice brew. One of Sides’ better efforts.” He handed it back and slipped off the desk, pushing a datapad in front of Ratchet’s faceplates. “Just sign this and you can have your secure unit back. By the way, he’s right about Megatron targeting medics. Tactical went back over the data and they figure he must have given the order about three hundred years ago, can’t figure out the precise date but that’s when we see a sharp increase in the number of medic casualties on our side. Dunno how we missed that one, we should have caught it even if there wasn’t an official announcement.”

The expression on Jazz’s face wasn’t pleasant so Ratchet looked elsewhere, frowning down at the blurry datapad.

“I’ll sign that in the morning.” He said, shoving the thing away. Finishing his highgrade with one long swallow Ratchet pushed himself up into something like a standing position.

“Drift’s right, you need a slagging babysitter.” Jazz muttered, moving to catch Ratchet as the highgrade hit him all at once and the medic tripped over his own pedes.

### ~V~V~V~

Officially discharged from medical, officially neutral, Deadlock stood and turned in place, hardly believing that he was awake.

They’d assigned him quarters.

The Autobots had actually given him a habsuite of his own in the middle of their Iacon base.

It was _unbelievable_.

The place was tiny; the hallway door opened on to a small room that could be a large office or very small living area, which in turn led to a berthroom just big enough to hold a berth that was already set to half-again standard width and a small storage unit jammed between the berth and the wall. There was even a rudimentary cleaning station built into the hallway wall of the main room. The width of the berth amused Deadlock, even as he knew it had probably been set that way for practical reasons.

_Someone saw how I thrashed around in Medical and decided this was safer_.

He tested the surface of the berth and wandered around, giving the place a token sweep for bugs. It was a given that they’d have _some_ sort of surveillance on him. For all that he’d officially gone neutral they would have no way of knowing if this was a ruse without mnemosurgery, hacking or watching him until he slipped up. Honestly, Deadlock expected _some_ form of monitoring and would have felt mildly insulted if he hadn’t been able to find any.

While there were no visible cameras he did find a discreet infrared sensor that appeared to be built into the room, possibly as part of an internal security system dating from before this building had been conscripted and repurposed. With his new armour possessing similar infrared camouflaging properties to the stuff Starscream had stripped from him the infrared would be of limited use in tracking his every move.

Deadlock left the infrared sensors alone, but crushed the single microphone he found behind the small cabinet in the berthroom. He knew there would be other, better-hidden devices but he didn’t bother seeking them out. Everyone had played their parts in the little spy game of We-know-you-know-we’re-watching-you-and-you-know-we-know-etc so now he could relax. Even this token game was nothing more than mildly amusing and he honestly didn’t know what mechs like Soundwave and Jazz saw in it, unless it was something like the thrill of the hunt.

_Espionage mechs are_ weird. _There’s too much stillness and quiet in spy games for me._

His internal alarm pinged, reminding him of his first scheduled training bout with Sunstreaker and his twin. Deadlock had yet to meet the red warrior outside of a battle situation and he was honestly looking forward to it.

If Sideswipe was anything like his twin then Deadlock would at least _understand_ the mech, unlike the rest of the Autobots he’d met so far.

_Except for Ratchet_.

Lost in thoughts of the medic, Deadlock opened the door of his quarters and walked out without checking to see if there was anyone on the other side. As a result he almost ran straight into a scarlet-plated mech who smirked when Deadlock jumped backwards and dropped into a defensive crouch with his plating flattened, almost-regrown claws unsheathed and his denta bared as he aimed a snarl at the unknown warrior-build.

“Easy tiger, I’m just here to show you the way to the training rooms.” The red mech said casually.

“I know where they are.” Deadlock grumbled as he straightened, embarrassment burning through him like acid.

“Yeah, but the rest of the mechs around here would be happier if they saw you with one of their own. Not many _neutrals_ left around here, after all.” The intonations the red mech used for ‘neutral’ said he clearly meant ‘Decepticon’ “Besides, I wanted to have a little chat with you. In _private_.”

Not bothering to waste time pointing out that a public corridor in the middle of an active base hardly counted as _private_ , Deadlock fell in beside the red mech as he started out in the direction of the lift to the training levels.

“Anyway, in case you haven’t figured it out by now; I’m Sideswipe.” Red said casually as they walked. “Sunstreaker is my twin. And I have something to say to you regarding Ratchet.” Expression cold, Sideswipe stepped in front of Deadlock in one smooth move, seeming to loom even though he was barely taller than the ex-Decepticon. “You so much as _think_ about hurting him and I will _personally_ render you into your component atoms. And not even Sunny will be able to stop me.”

The last sentence was delivered with a cheerful smile and total sincerity.

Deadlock believed every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Deadlock still doesn't think of himself as 'Drift' yet. As the fic continues he will grow more comfortable referring to himself with the new designation and start to use it more in his thoughts, even though others will exclusively use the new designation from now on.  
> ~Sideswipe starts out playing Bad Cop but he honestly thinks Drift has a hell of a lot of proving himself to do before he's worthy of Sides' blood-brother.
> 
> THESE. FRIGGIN. IDIOT. ROBOTS. ARGH.


	9. Unofficial Ratchet-Wrangler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trying to solve one problem Deadlock runs headfirst into another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Drowned](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0i8F5JJQfc) [Tim Minchin], [Decode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvnkAtWcKYg) [Paramore]

Several weeks and many, many training sessions with the twins later Deadlock was getting really tired of the way Ratchet insisted on always being the one to patch up their inevitable training injuries. Even though Sideswipe seemed to have a special dislike of Drift he never inflicted anything serious enough to require the attention of the CMO, but Ratchet _still_ insisted on checking all three of them over himself, instead of doing the sensible thing and leaving it to one of the other medics.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe would give Deadlock significant looks whenever he brought this up, looks which he pointedly ignored. It was Sunstreaker’s decreasingly subtle comments on their way to refuel after each visit to medical that got reactions; glares and snarls from Deadlock and glares and cuffs from Sideswipe. Whenever Perceptor saw this the scientist would smile, refusing to explain why he thought the situation was so funny.

It was easy enough for Deadlock to take this friendly teasing in stride, because these mechs weren’t the source of the problem.

Ratchet was.

Specifically, the way Ratchet _still_ flinched back whenever his hands got too close to Deadlock’s face. It was wearing on the speedster’s last nervecircuit.

It really didn’t help that the warrior twins seemed to find the situation hilariously funny, teasing Ratchet as if all three Autobots of them knew something Deadlock didn’t. Attempts to pry more information from them were a spectacular failure. The last time he tried to ask, Sideswipe gave him a look that could have stripped paint before storming off, bowling over some minibots who’d just entered the corridor.

“What the slag is his problem?” Deadlock turned to Sunstreaker, who seemed to be the sensible one at the moment.

“Idiot’s jealous.” Sunstreaker spoke loudly enough to be overheard by Sideswipe, who made a rude gesture back at them before transforming and tearing off, leaving the minibots to pick themselves up off the floor. “He’s used to being the only one who really gets on with me. And he doesn’t like the way Ratchet looks at you.”

Frustratingly, Sunstreaker refused to explain what he meant by the comment about Ratchet, developing a sudden and remarkably thorough selective deafness about the subject.

_Now I know why the interrogators hate those two so much._

The situation finally got bad enough for Drift to bring it up during his weekly argument session with the little orange Psy-Ops mech; figuring the little mech was the next best place to gather information. And talking about Ratchet was infinitely better than talking about the Winglord or why Drift wasn’t returning to the Decepticons, anyway.

The final straw came on a particularly bad day when Ratchet had to re-set Deadlock’s nasal ridge after Sideswipe accidentally (on purpose) broke it during training. The way Ratchet had flinched back from Deadlock’s head every time the speedster growled a protest during the process of straightening his nasal guard and pulling the fractured struts back into place made the ex-Decepticon extremely uncomfortable.

Ratchet being afraid of him made Deadlock uncomfortable.

 _He’s got no reason to be afraid of me, why can’t he_ see _that?_

With his nasal ridge still throbbing in uncomfortable reminder, Deadlock poured the entire situation out in a torrent of frustrated words, pre-empting the orange mech before he could establish the direction of their weekly argument.

“He can’t _still_ be slagged off about me biting him, can he? It was ages ago and I was half out of my processor and _he flicked my slagging finial_. Those things are _full_ of sensors. A reaction like that is _normal_.” Deadlock groused, “I drew energon but it wasn’t _that_ bad. I don’t know what his slagging problem is. He can’t be holding a grudge, he doesn’t seem like that kind of mech.”

“What kind of mech does he seem like to you then?” The little mech asked. “If you don’t think he would hold a grudge then there must be another reason for this reaction of his.”

“Well… yeah.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?”

“If I _had_ then I wouldn’t be slagging asking you about it, would I?”

Small, Creepy and Orange laced his fingers together and raised an optical ridge at Drift. “I would suggest approaching Ratchet about it. I am not a mind-reader so I’m afraid that I cannot help you with this.”

“Wow, _thanks_. You’re so helpful.” Deadlock snarked, while making plans to do just that.

A few text-based comms to First Aid with some Ratchet-related questions gave him exactly the information he needed to do as Creepy McSpectacles suggested. When their allotted argument time ended Deadlock got a large cube of energon from the mess hall and tucked it safely into subspace as he stalked through the corridors to Medical, not even bothering to control his Field or the expression on his face.

So what if the Autobots knew that Deadlock openly roamed their halls? He had more important things to worry about right now than mechs who flinched and scurried away from him as he prowled through the base with the intense focus of a predator on the trail of wounded prey. Let them be reminded, anyone who had become complacent. Let them remember what he could do to anyone who tried to interrupt him in his self-appointed mission.

The main ward was bustling with life when he entered, First Aid pointing him in the right direction without having to be asked. Healthy and injured mechs alike scattered before Deadlock as he stalked his target.

The medic didn’t even twitch when he came into EMF range.

That familiar red-and-white back stayed turned to him, Ratchet completely engrossed in repairs to someone’s leg. Drift stalked right up to the busy mech as the patient on the medberth tried to shift away without moving his leg. It was moderately funny, Ratchet was soldering in a tricky spot so all the groundframe could really do was flex his armour and lean away.

“Ratchet.” Deadlock growled, not bothering to force his vocaliser to produce the vaguely Iaconan intonations most Autobots preferred. “You need to fuel.”

Ratchet didn’t even look up from what he was doing.

“Later. I’m busy.”

“No, _now_.” Deadlock bared his denta at the stubbornly oblivious medic, ignoring the heavy groundframe on the medberth. “Even _I_ can see this is non-urgent. He’s not going to die if you take five minutes to have a fragging cube.”

“I promise not to move while you do.” The groundframe said, obviously more afraid of Drift than the mech who was currently wielding a soldering torch dangerously close to his internal mechanisms. “Not even a twitch. I swear on my spark, Ratchet.”

Outnumbered, Ratchet made a disgusted sound and slammed the neat coil of soldering wire onto the berth beside his patient, letting his soldering tool transform back into the side of his hand.

“ _Fine_ , since neither of you will shut up until I do.”

Drift projected smug satisfaction as Ratchet turned and stomped towards his office. The mech he’d been working on shocked Drift by giving him a small smile and a covert gesture of approval before lying back on the medberth and switching his optics off.

_What the frag was that about?_

Wondering, Drift turned on his heel and followed in Ratchet’s considerable wake, determined to ensure Ratchet actually stopped working while he consumed the fuel Drift had brought for him. Ratchet rolled his optics at the size of the cube when Deadlock handed it to him but he accepted it without comment, biting into the corner and beginning to drink with teal optics half-closed and fixed challengingly on the speedster.

The way Ratchet’s lipplates wrapped around the glowing membrane of the cube and the smooth way his throat cables worked as he chugged the fuel down was mesmerising, capturing Deadlock’s attention and driving all other thoughts out of his head until Ratchet dissipated the empty cube and licked a stray drop of energon from the corner of his mouth.

“You happy?” Ratchet demanded and Drift nodded, lost for words. “Can I get back to work now?”

Deadlock’s mouth was dry, his vocaliser refused to work. All he could do was nod again and wave a hand at the door. Ratchet snorted and brushed past him, their Fields contacting with a brief flicker of tension and what could almost have been gratitude. When he was gone Drift cycled his vents, wondering when the room had become so warm. The original reason for his visit had been completely blown from his processor by the last few minutes.

_…Primus below._

Further attempts went the same way, Drift becoming distracted by ensuring Ratchet consumed at least one full cube per day. Weeks went by and it became a regular occurrence.

 _Too_ regular.

Ratchet seemed to be pathologically incapable of taking care of himself and Deadlock found it hard to believe that none of the Autobots had noticed, or that if they _had_ noticed they had simply chosen to do nothing about it.

 _Mech really_ does _need a fragging minder or something_.

The thought was like a fission chain-reaction, lighting up his processors with the answers to problems that had been chewing at him for months.

How to stay, how to make sure Ratchet was protected, how to do so without becoming an Autobot himself and making oaths to mechs he didn’t trust and risking being stationed away from Ratchet, as would inevitably happen if he placed himself under someone else’s command again.

Fully regrown claws traced the bare place where his Decepticon sigil had been and Deadlock knew he wouldn’t make an oath he didn’t intend to keep. He wouldn’t risk attaching himself to mechanisms that might prove to be untrustworthy, not again.

 _But I_ know _I can trust Ratchet_.

All of these thoughts distracted Deadlock and pushed Ratchet’s annoying flinching out of his helm until a particularly nasty training accident brought it back to the forefront again.

Knowing the limitations of his blasters when it came to close-quarters combat, Deadlock had pestered Jazz into teaching him a double-bladed fighting technique, claiming it was just to have something to do. During a bout Drift missed a parry and Jazz’s practice blade hit his helm with surprising force, slamming into Deadlock’s face with enough strength to dent his helm and shatter a cheekstrut.

Jazz had been called away, giving a rather annoyed Perceptor the task of escorting Drift to medical to. The scientist left Drift to stumble through the doors by himself, returning to the training wing to store an impressive rifle Deadlock had never seen him with before.

By this point the throbbing in his helm was scrambling Deadlock’s optical input, but he had no trouble identifying the maroon-and-white blob that was Forceps. The medic took one look at Drift’s smashed and bleeding face and yelled for Ratchet, ignoring the injured mech in favour of continuing to add supplies to what appeared to be dozens of first-aid kits he had spread over two unoccupied medberths.

Everything went more-or-less smoothly until Ratchet was gluing the dermal metal of a split lip back together. Drift’s pain receptors for the area were still online and he couldn’t help the way his engine growled and he hissed through clenched denta at the sting. Ratchet cringed away, snatching his hands back so fast he dropped the tube of dermal glue.

The sound of it hitting the floor seemed to echo in the silent room.

Drift finally ran out of patience with Ratchet’s behaviour.

“Can you _stop_ with the flinching already?” Deadlock demanded, engine rumbling. “I’m _not_ going to bite you again, Ratchet. Besides, it wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?”

His memories of the incident were fuzzy and distorted but he clearly recalled the flavour of Ratchet’s energon. Guilt made his spark shrink a little even as something in him burned with the memory of taste.

Ratchet didn’t answer right away, obviously considering his answer carefully. Out of nowhere, Forceps marched over and shoved a datapad in front of Deadlock’s face. On the screen were several gruesomely high-detail image captures of a badly bitten hand.

Despite the severity of the injury Deadlock recognised the hand.

He would know it anywhere.

It was Ratchet’s.

“We managed to salvage the neural lines you crushed, but he nearly lost two fingers and First Aid had to re-route the wiring for several micro-tools.” The multiple-opticed medic snapped. “If you do _anything_ like that again I’ll personally remove your jaw and give to Ratchet for scalpel handles. Do you understand me, Drift?”

 _Well,_ he’s _spent too much time around Ratchet_. Deadlock mused as he took in the damage visible on the datapad screen, thoughts tangling and spark lurching unhappily in his chest.

Almost without realising it, Drift came to a decision.

Shoving the datapad aside, he gathered both of Ratchet’s hands carefully in his. Raising his chin to bare his throat in a deliberate show of submission Drift lifted Ratchet’s hands and fitted them around his neck, placing the fingers he _knew_ contained scalpels and other blades over the thick cables of his neural lines and the lines where his energon pulsed. He raised his optics to meet Ratchet’s bright teal gaze, the medic looking at him with the same strange mix of astonishment and wonder that throbbed through his tightly-held Field.

The medic seemed to be frozen as Deadlock deliberately pressed those red hands to his own vulnerable throat.

“Ratchet, you’re the only mech in this pack of lunatics I trust without reservation.” Drift said vehemently, carefully holding Ratchet’s hands against his throat and willing the medic to believe him, to _trust_ him, to _stop_ with this stupid fear. “I swear on my speed and my spark that I will _never_ willingly harm you.”

Under the intent gaze of six Autobot-blue optics; two of them stunned and four of them _definitely_ smug, Deadlock felt something shift in his coding and suddenly his new designation seemed to fit a lot better than it had even a few moments before.

Although as he looked up at Ratchet he had to wonder if his change in direction really was as controlled as his designation-glyph implied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Deadlock is slowly becoming more comfortable thinking of himself as 'Drift'  
> ~DEADLOCK YOU OBLIVIOUS GIT OMFG  
> ~Forceps is an Extreme Search and Rescue medic, he doesn't have typical medic coding. He has 4 optics.  
> ~Deadlock/Drift uses a ritual display of submission and fealty from the culture he spent most of his life in. (If Ratchet had claws he would have put those over his nerves+arteries instead) Ratchet recognises it. Forceps doesn't, he's just smug as fuck about the general situation.


	10. Jerkin' It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock has a revelation, in his own inimitable fashion.  
> The universe conspires against Ratchet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Out of the Woods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLf9q36UsBk) [Taylor Swift], [The Gift](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJUuzAnaWp0) [Seether]
> 
> The title of this chapter was SUPPOSED to be a way for me to identify an already-finished scene within the draft. Then I sent the scene to Notanevilmastermind with the working label attached. NEVER AGAIN. *hides face in hands*

That night Deadlock lay in his berth, feeling slow arousal twist its way through his frame as thoughts of Ratchet danced through his processors.

He remembered the commanding presence of Ratchet’s EMF, the way it had softened as Drift had touched him and wrapped those red hands around his own throat in willing submission, the way the medic’s lips had parted as understanding dawned in his optics immediately followed by a recollection of those same lips covered with a thin sheen of energon and the way Ratchet’s throat cables had worked as he drank the fuel Drift brought him.

_Why?_

Drift frowned at the ceiling, thinking.

Repeated hints from Sunstreaker hadn’t helped matters, and if Sideswipe meant to deter Deadlock with his continuing disapproval then his plans had backfired spectacularly. Between them the twins had firmly cemented an impossible idea in Drift’s mind.

_I wonder…_

Even though it had been long months Drift still remembered the feeling of gentle hands on his protoform.

Vividly.

Every place Ratchet had touched while helping him re-armour seemed to tingle, pulsing bright and warm in his awareness like scattered patches of hot oil splashed across his frame.

Pulling his hands from behind his helm Deadlock traced over each place now hidden by thick plating, pressing down with the pads of his fingers and flicking gentle claws through the seams closest to each spot to tease delicate sensors. Heat spread outwards from where he touched, armour relaxing away from its defensive clamp over his substructure as arousal grew and his cooling fans clicked on.

Insistent throbbing from his pelvic array made Drift hesitate; too many memories of conditioned responses to Starscream’s abuse surging up in a thick black wave, threatening to asphyxiate him.

_No._

Deadlock rebelled.

Baring his fangs, he snarled up at the dim yellowish glow his optics cast across the ceiling. Defying the memory of cruel words hissing in his audials Drift moved his hands over his frame again, deliberately summoning memories of blunt, fine-plated red fingers and rough words of comfort offered during the ragged aftermath of nightmares to chase away the lingering spectre of the Winglord.

It was a novelty to have conscious control over his interface covers. Deadlock let both layers lock and unlock, open and close over his spike and valve as his hands strayed over his frame, reinvoking the memory of caring touches. Arousal spread in their wake as Drift twitched and gasped quietly beneath his own fingers and claws.

Eventually failsafes cut in and prevented the closure of his spike covers as the unit started to pressurise slowly in response to his ministrations. One hand rose to his finials in a familiar self-soothing gesture as the other carefully investigated the half-pressurised length. Deadlock wasn’t aroused enough for the shaft to start secreting lubrication on its own so he coated two fingers in his oral solvents before sliding them slowly over his spike, hips twitching up into the sensation.

 _They didn’t replace anything, just repaired what they found. So I_ should _still have most of my mods._

Forcing himself to relax, Deadlock gently stroked and pinched at first one finial, then the other as he coaxed his spike to full pressurisation and began spreading the lubricant that oozed from special ducts over the shaft. It felt better than he remembered, the familiar grip of his own hand on his firm, undamaged hardware bringing rough sobs of relief to his vocaliser as Drift tightened his grip and stroked himself to overload, growling and arching up from the berth to spill over his belly in a molten burst.

It was powerful enough to reset a few nonessential systems and fill his entire frame with a feeling of fuzzy relaxation as he dragged clawed fingertips idly through the mess on his cooling abdominal armour, listening to the ringing in his audials and contemplating the liquid heat pooled behind his secondary valve cover. Deadlock felt more relaxed than he had in a long time and really couldn’t be bothered getting up right now.

An unacknowledged and half-completed processing thread acknowledged the possibility that Ratchet might prefer to ‘lob’ instead of ‘catch’ as common frontliner terminology went. And if that was the case, then…

_Gonna need to clean up anyway, may as well see if I can make it worth the effort._

Even before Starscream, Deadlock had self-serviced his valve so rarely that he had to consciously recall the steps, switching his clean hand to the opposite finial and staring fixedly up at the ceiling as he retracted his claws and rubbed two fingertips over the secondary covers of his valve. Spreading his knees a little, Deadlock brought his pedes up towards his aft and set them flat on the berth to get better access, chewing on his bottom lip as he doggedly tried to coax his secondary covers open.

He bit through his lip when the covers retracted without warning, his fingers slipping through to catch on a raised cluster of sensors. Trapped lubricant spilled out over Drift’s hand in a warm wave, getting into joints of his plating and easing what little friction spots had developed since his last maintenance session.

Inevitably, thoughts of his hands lead to thoughts of the fascinating, frustrating medic whose hands had saved his life twice over now. Deadlock couldn’t seem to keep his thoughts off Ratchet for long, especially not when running currently-clawless fingertips over external sensor clusters and licking at the energon flowing sluggishly from his bitten lip.

_I wonder how often Ratchet does upkeep on his hands? Can’t be that often, not with all the scratches and dull spots he has. Heh, I wonder what he’d say if I suggested shoving them up my valve as part of a regular maintenance routine?_

Thoughts of Ratchet buried knuckle-deep in his valve made Deadlock’s pedes curl, pleasure spreading in waves from where he pressed his palm flat over the external portion of his valve unit and pressed down, trying to satisfy a sudden longing ache deep within his frame.

 _Do I actually want something_ in _me? What the frag?!_

Slowly, carefully he slipped a finger into his entrance, pressing as deep as he dared as he pinched the tip of his finial and twitched his hips, purring at the dual sensations as pleasure stole over him again. His own blunt fingertips that could so very easily belong to another, someone Drift wouldn’t mind having between his legs. It was almost too easy to pretend, to replace the memories of an unwelcome voice with a kinder one as he probed gently into his passage, seeking out node clusters and feeling callipers flex.

When the empty feeling returned Drift added another finger, valve adjusting easily as he rocked onto his hand and moaned, deliberately pressing his knuckles into sensor clusters that shot lightning up his spinal struts. The growl of his engine was almost-but-not-quite the timbre of a familiar voice urging him on, encouraging him to arch and twist on the berth as he wished as he chased the overload that was always just out of reach.

_So fragging close._

One more stroke of his finial, one more curl of blunted fingers, one more memory of a gruff compliment...

This time Drift overloaded with a shudder and a gasp, Ratchet’s name on his lips as systems shut down one by one as he succumbed to an irresistible tide of processor-blanking bliss.

When Deadlock cycled up he was curled on his side, backplates to the wall with the remains of his self-servicing crusted and sticky on his plating. Shuddering and resisting the urge to bolt for the washracks, Drift let his claws emerge and carefully cleaned out the worst of the tacky mess that had seeped into his hip joints.

 _So if Sun is right then Ratchet wants to frag me, at the very least. And if_ I _didn’t want to frag_ him _I wouldn’t have just said his name and shot my load so hard I blacked out._

Knowing himself as well as he did –even better than he had before, thanks to that little orange mech- then Deadlock wouldn’t get this out of his system until he’d fragged the medic.

Standing in his way was the issue of Ratchet refusing to hook up with potential patients, even just for a single night of guaranteed no-strings-attached fragging. But Drift was officially neutral now; fully-healed and no longer in need of specialist medical attention besides his weekly arguments with the bespectacled Psy-Ops mech.

_I could get primary care transferred to First Aid…_

It would be easy enough to do; speak to the right mechs, fill out some forms and voila! Ethical crisis averted.

 _That’s_ if _Sun’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing._

There was a distinct possibility that Sunstreaker was misjudging the quality and depth of Ratchet’s attraction to the ex-Decepticon. Drift knew all too well the feeling of someone who only wanted him for his frame, for what he could do in the berth.

After all, Starscream had made it far too clear that being a berthwarmer had been his only _real_ use to the Decepticons.

_A buymech with a gun…_

That ruined voice whispered harshly in his audials again, the familiar feeling of being inescapably contaminated crept over Deadlock, chasing away the bright memory of Ratchet’s touch and the lingering relaxation of overload.

Snarling low in his vocaliser, Deadlock shoved himself up off the berth and stomped towards the cleaning station.

### ~V~V~V~

“He _what?_ ” Ratchet demanded.

Prowl thought he almost sounded betrayed. He hid his amusement, watching calmly as the irate medic blustered and gesticulated in the middle of his office.

“Drift has requested that his primary care be transferred to another medic.” Prowl responded in an even voice. “Given that he has recovered from his original injuries and seems to have integrated well with the rest of the base despite his… _unique_ status, I couldn’t deny his request.”

Ratchet stopped dead, his lipplates moving silently.

_You can call me a traitor all you like, it won’t change anything._

“He is in no need of specialist care and First Aid is more than capable of dealing with any injuries Drift sustains during training.” Prowl continued ruthlessly. “This will also free up more of your time to pass his checkups over to another medic. You _have_ been complaining about your workload lately.”

Thousands of years of practice were all that kept Prowl’s doorwings from betraying his delight in the situation as Ratchet stared at him like a turborat caught in Optimus’ headlights. The medic’s legendary temper appeared to have abandoned him, taking his vocabulary with it; the only sound that emerging from his mouth was the sporadic crackle of a resetting vocaliser.

“Rung assures me that Drift’s mental state is progressing in leaps and bounds,” Prowl continued as if he had no ulterior motives whatsoever behind approving Drift’s request before Ratchet heard of it. “His behaviour in public has been almost exemplary and Rung is of the opinion that while his desire for revenge is still strong, it is no longer his primary motivator.” The smile that stretched Prowl’s lipplates was precisely calculated; not a trace of smugness tainted the expression. “Introducing him to the Twins was a stroke of genius, Ratchet. Thank you for suggesting it.”

Ratchet muttered something that Prowl pretended not to hear, just as he ignored the hostile EMF surge.

“Besides, your concerns would best be discussed with Drift himself.” Prowl became brisk, his doorwings twitching with irritation. “Now if you don’t have issues that I can deal with, I suggest you let me return to what I was doing. If I don’t complete this supply line analysis by the end of the cycle you’re going to have to be more careful with the tools you throw around.”

Growling, Ratchet stomped from the room. The door slid closed and Prowl finally allowed himself a smirk, doorwings waving merrily at the security camera.

 _Now you’re out of reasons to continue resisting your attraction to the mech. That’s your_ real _problem here, isn’t it Ratchet?_

Prowl delayed returning to work just long enough to send a quick comm message.

::Rung, you have incoming. Ratchet just left my office and I do believe he’s going to try blaming you next.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Slowly, /slowly/ he's getting more used to calling himself 'Drift'.  
> ~I figured rubbing his finials would be a logical self-soothing gesture for Drift  
> ~For the purposes of this fic I adapted some slightly old-fashioned gay male slang into more Cybertronian terms via a game shown in TFP, therefore 'Pitcher'/'Lobber'=spike mech and 'Catcher'=valve mech. (Thank you Ren+Stimpy -.-;)
> 
> DEADLOCK! ABOUT. FUCKING. TIME. *facedesk*  
> Ratchet, you're doomed. Just accept your fate.


	11. A Handjob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift continues in his crusade against Ratchet's terrible self-care habits.  
> He has more allies than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [I'd do anything for love (But I won't do that)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9X_ViIPA-Gc) [Meatloaf]

The question of Ratchet’s maintenance habits preyed on Deadlock’s processor for days after he resumed intimate relations with himself. Discreet questioning of First Aid and Forceps was quite educational and brought home to Drift just how much pain Ratchet must have been in when he sank his fangs into the medic’s hand. With this in mind, he set about planning the next move in his self-appointed mission to ensure Ratchet took care of himself.

It wasn’t like Drift had anything better to do with his time.

All of his weapons were disabled and few mechs besides Jazz and the twins were willing to spar with Drift, despite his neutral status. When he was finally allowed near the racing circuit he discovered that it was _definitely_ below average. Listening to other speedsters and the few Praxians on base complain about it was highly entertaining, despite the bursts of terror that shot through Deadlock whenever he saw doorwings –or anything else that resembled wings, for that matter.

So Drift had plenty of time to plot, and he made good use of it.

He waited until he had Ratchet lulled into a false sense of security by only pestering him to fuel. When the medic’s grumbles became perfunctory, Drift moved to the next stage of his campaign.

It was surprising how many willing accomplices he found in the ranks of Ratchet’s fellow medics when he approached them. Apparently the CMO was more agreeable to work with when he was properly fuelled, although his patients begged to differ, claiming his aim was better than ever.

Drift arrived at Medical precisely ten minutes after shift change, freezing and bristling at the sight of _wings_ before he identified that they were _doorwings_ attached to a chatty Praxian sniper and forced himself to relax. He didn’t have much of a problem with Prowl anymore, especially as the SIC tended to keep his sensory panels still most of the time. Mechs like Bluestreak who emoted with their doorwings still brought back memories Deadlock would rather forget.

“Oh hi Drift you must be here for Ratchet, right?” Bluestreak greeted him cheerfully.

If he hadn’t seen the mech shoot Drift would have snarled something offensive. Instead he kept his mouth shut and jerked his helm in a nod, forcing his optics _away_ from alertly-positioned doorwings.

“He’s in his office.” Bluestreak said, winking conspiratorially. “I think he was supposed to be off-shift now but he said he’s got files or something to work on. Perceptor has the kit all ready for you; he said to say he’ll meet you in the mess hall in a bit.”

Muttering thanks, Drift avoided looking at the sniper as he marched over to Ratchet’s office, not bothering to knock before shoving the door open. As predicted, the medic was at his desk, making notations on a datapad. Deadlock raised an optical ridge at the stack of datapads sitting in Ratchet’s inbox even as the medic made a shooing motion at him without bothering to look up.

“Whatever you’re going to say, Aid, you can shove it.” Ratchet said, still not taking his optics from the datapad he was scribbling on. “Paperwork _isn’t_ taxing and you know it.”

“Your shift ended fifteen minutes ago.” Drift announced, enjoying the way Ratchet’s helm jerked up and an expression of pure astonishment spread across his faceplates as the busily working hand slowing to a halt on the datapad. “You can tell First Aid about the paperwork yourself on the way out.”

“What are you doing here?” Ratchet demanded, stylus slipping from his fingers.

“Gonna be calling Rung if you don’t get your aft out of that chair in the next two minutes.” Deadlock warned, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, perfectly aware of the gathering audience in the ward behind him. Ratchet was outnumbered and he didn’t even know it. “You trying to work yourself into an early grave or something?”

Ratchet spluttered something inarticulate and Deadlock heard the distinct sound of First Aid and Bluestreak smothering laughter behind him. He smirked, letting Ratchet see his fangs. While the medic hadn’t resumed work he was still taking too long for Drift’s liking, so he raised two fingers to his temple in the social signal for speaking over internal comms.

“Alright. _Fine_.” Ratchet said loudly, slamming his hands on the desk as he stood. “See? I’m going.”

“Good.” Drift said, giving the medic his most charming smile as Ratchet stubbed his pede on the corner of his desk. “Since you _obviously_ didn’t have any plans for your off-shift I decided to make you some.”

### ~V~V~V~

Before the shock of being ambushed could wear off, Ratchet found himself whisked neatly out of Medical; both First Aid and Bluestreak calling out cheerful farewells as Drift escorted him through the main ward and out into the base beyond.

“Mess hall first.” Drift announced authoritatively. “You’ll need fuel and I’ve gotta grab something from Perceptor.”

The suggestion that he’d need to have full tanks for whatever Drift had planned brought a whole host of ideas into Ratchet’s mind that covered almost everything from absolutely respectable to completely inappropriate. He deleted them in a rush, forcing his attention back to the speedster at his side. Drift had obviously visited the washracks recently; his smooth pewter curves were spotless, the refined crimson-and-gold accents glowed where the light caught them. Every plate was buffed to the subtle gleam that Drift seemed to prefer over a high-gloss finish.

Not that he had any reason to know what kind of polishing Drift preferred.

 _He’s_ not _my patient anymore. His maintenance isn’t my business._

They stayed in the mess hall long enough for Ratchet to have a rather large cube, Perceptor dropping by for a chat while he refuelled. It amazed Ratchet to hear how much of the Iaconan pronunciation common to the base Drift had picked up. It was especially noticeable when the speedster chatted with Perceptor. While they talked, the scientist passed Drift a package that he slid straight into a subspace pocket before Ratchet could see what it was, all he could tell from the general size and shape was that it might have been a small toolkit or a large datapad.

It didn’t really matter; what was more important to Ratchet was the fact that Drift was forging closer bonds with the mechs around him. The more friends the speedster had in Iacon, the less likely he was to go haring off on some crazy, suicidal plot to get revenge on the Winglord.

_The more people he gets on with here the less likely he is to leave…_

Ratchet deliberately didn’t look at any personal reasons he might have for wanting Drift to stay.

_My feelings are irrelevant._

The instant Ratchet finished his cube Drift had him up and moving again, herding the medic to one of the smaller out-of-the-way washracks used for fiddly frame-cleaning jobs.

By common consent, ‘racks like this were places of quiet concentration and cooperation where even people who actively loathed each other had been known to engage in thorough mutual grooming sessions. Witnesses of one particular occasion had said that watching a frosty Cliffjumper and Sunstreaker clean and detail each other like bondmates in total silence had been _incredibly_ disturbing to watch.

Apparently Drift didn’t want witnesses, since he shut the door behind them and flicked the ‘occupied’ light on despite there still being plenty of space for others besides them in the room. Ratchet sat on the bench Drift directed him to, cycling his optics in surprise when the speedster pulled one of the fold-away tables out from the wall and tapped the surface commandingly, reaching for a detachable showerhead.

“You. Hands. Up here.” Drift ordered, tapping the table again when Ratchet was slow to do what he wanted.

Feeling uncooperative, Ratchet folded is arms instead and fixed Drift with a glare and a raised optic ridge, pulling his Field back so the speedster couldn’t sense the nervous tension surging through him as Drift pulled the Perceptor’s mysterious package from subspace and placed it to the side, flipping it open to reveal a specialised cleaning kit that looked like it had been assembled from contributions made by several different mechs.

_Only one thing all that could be used on; and I’m pretty sure that’s Forceps’ spare micro-buffer in there._

“What the slag is this all about?” Ratchet demanded, as if it wasn’t perfectly obvious by now.

 _Why is he_ doing _all this? Why so much effort… for_ me?!

“A little bird told me you don’t do full maintenance as often as you should.” Drift said, giving Ratchet a significant look. “You can’t afford to skimp on it, not when you work as hard as you do.”

“What are you, my slagging babysitter or something?” Ratchet asked sarcastically, finally giving in and placing his hands on the table.

Saying nothing for a moment, Drift switched the showerhead on, fiddling with it before directing a gentle stream of cleanser over Ratchet’s hands.

The cleanser was the perfect temperature, the perfect pressure and Ratchet almost melted even as Drift’s Field flared hot and dense with a tangle of emotions he couldn’t decipher before it pulled away again. The speedster’s engine gave an angry rumble at odds with the painstakingly thorough way he sluiced Ratchet’s hands down, making sure to soak every tiny nook and cranny.

“I might as well be your babysitter, since you fragging _need_ one and nobody else has the struts for the job.” Drift growled as he switched the solvent off and collected small brushes and a sponge from the cleaning kit, beginning to work on the joints of Ratchet’s left wrist.

“What the slag are you on about?” Ratchet couldn’t believe his audials, firmly ignoring the way his spark jolted and deliberately trying to avoid the difficult conversation or argument he could see looming by shifting the tone to banter. “You make me sound like some kind of Unicron-spawned nightmare.”

The little grin that pulled up the corners of Drift’s lipplates almost stopped the air in Ratchet’s vents.

_Need to get those looked at._

Drift’s hands didn’t falter as he pondered his answer, moving with efficient precision as he removed the small pockets of muck that inevitably collected in the crevices of his hands despite regular bathing and post-surgery scrubdowns. Places he’d forgotten were itchy were soothed as Drift carefully removed grit and rinsed them down, checking again to make sure he’d gotten everything. Savouring the rare feeling of being thoroughly cleaned, Ratchet almost forgot they’d been talking.

That little grin didn’t leave Drift’s faceplates the entire time he worked on Ratchet’s left hand.

“Even ‘Cons know not to screw around in your Medbay.” There was an undercurrent of amused pride in Drift’s vocals as he moved on to the right hand. “You’re tied with Jazz for scariest mech on this side of the battle lines.”

“Not sure I wanted to know that.” Ratchet said with a snort of laughter. “But thanks, I think.”

“Welcome.” Drift said absently, most of his attention on the tricky business of working a small cleaning pick around the armour of Ratchet’s wrist without snagging anything sensitive. “Now shut up again and let me concentrate.”

“Yes _sir_.” His dryly sarcastic tone got another uptwitch of Drift’s lipplates and a good-natured grumble about doing as he was told.

They lapsed into comfortable silence, Drift once again working with total concentration and more care than Ratchet would have expected from a non-medic. At some point Drift must have somehow discovered precisely what the tolerances of a medic’s hands were, because right now he appeared to be taking extreme care to stay within those limits.

The result for Ratchet was pure hedonistic bliss accompanied by the feeling of being pampered in a way he hadn’t been for _centuries_ ; not since his last visit to a spa, long before the war. Deliberately forgetting any objections he might have had to this treatment Ratchet let his optics slide offline and sighed happily through his vents, focusing on simply enjoying it.

When Drift came to the unmistakable scarring left from the bite would he’d inflicted the speedster paused, tracing the subtle half-moon indent in fine red plating that was only visible from the right –or _wrong_ \- angle. Mouth suddenly dry, Ratchet watched guardedly as Drift carefully inspected the protoform scarring visible in the gaps between flexed armour plates.

Amber optics shifted up, meeting Ratchet’s gaze soberly as the ex-Decepticon’s Field extended, carrying the feeling of sincere remorse.

“Was worse than I thought.” Drift murmured, retracting his claws and running a gentle fingertip over the half-circle mark. “’M sorry.”

Ratchet shivered, denying the heat that surged outwards from his spark.

“I should have known better than to get complacent.” He snapped, suddenly irritated by the guilt he could sense threading through Drift’s EM presence. “It was my own stupid fault, so you cut that slag out.”

It had been the worst pain of Ratchet’s life but he didn’t tell Drift; didn’t even so much as hint at how hard it had been to force himself to look after the speedster during the recovery period of his own surgeries. Even after he was functionally healed he still flinched away and Ratchet hated himself for every single one; especially loathing the brief surge of relief he’d felt when Drift had gotten himself assigned to another medic because _it meant he wouldn’t have to put his hands within range of Drift’s denta again_.

Something unnameable rose within Ratchet and he didn’t hesitate to lean forward and place his freshly cleaned and maintained fingers on Drift’s lips as the speedster opened them, forcing him to swallow whatever he’d been about to say.

“I said _mute it_.” Their optics locked. Drift’s were so bright that for one dizzying moment Ratchet thought he was looking into the heart of a star. “Understand?”

Drift nodded and pressed his lipplates to Ratchet’s fingers in a kiss that turned the medic’s world upside-down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mad cackling* I REGRET NOTHING!
> 
> ~Drift's speech /is/ changing, it's partly on purpose to fit in and partly on purpose so people can understand him and partly so people won't look down their nose at his lower-class speech patterns.  
> ~I haven't been able to show it so far but Ratchet is quietly terrified of Drift leaving (and getting himself killed). Emotionally constipated idiot medic UGH.


	12. Trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift finally loses his patience with Ratchet's reckless behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter: [Try](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTCDVfMz15M) [Pink], [You Grew on Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frNpdG4F9mw) [Tim Minchin]  
> (I very much see these two as being victims of that creepy-uppy kind of love, and the medical metaphors are too much to resist.)
> 
>  
> 
> I do mean 'Trying' in every sense of the word, omg.

Drift sat on the edge of his berth, resting his heavy helm in hands.

He was too wound up to initiate recharge so instead he sat and stared sightlessly at the floor, rubbing at the base of his finials while he contemplated a little icon on his HUD that indicated an unread message.

It was from Ratchet.

There was no way he could open that message.

Not after he’d leaned across the table and kissed Ratchet with a soft, yearning press of lipplates. _Definitely_ not after the way Deadlock had panicked and fled the instant Ratchet’s EMF bloomed with arousal and his heavy engine revved with interest.

Drift licked his lipplates, glossa searching uselessly for the taste of _Ratchet_ mixed with the fuel he’d had in the mess hall. Starscream’s words rolled through his mind again and despite what the little orange PsyOps mech had said, right now Drift couldn’t argue with them.

Not this time.

Not with the memory of Ratchet’s lips on his and the medic’s quiet moan of lust still ringing in his audials.

_I don’t… I_ want _him but I_ can’t _be that again. Can’t be just a cheap frag to be used and discarded.  I want to be worth more than that to him._

It wasn’t until morning shift started that he finally found the courage to open the message. When he did, Drift felt stupid for putting it off so long. Ratchet had sent a glyph of thanks and acceptance surrounded by modifiers the speedster didn’t understand and wouldn’t be able to decipher without help. With a disgusted grumble at his spinelessness, Drift pushed himself upright and went in search of morning energon, trying to figure out who would be best to ask for help with deciphering Ratchet’s message.

_I can always ask him at midday, when I make sure he has lunch…_

His tanks flopped over as he contemplated it, but Drift knew he couldn’t give up his habit of making sure Ratchet filled his tanks at least once per day. The thought of not doing so was more abhorrent than the idea of facing Ratchet after the mess he’d made of things.

Except that he didn’t get his chance.

In the middle of morning training both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stopped dead, put up their weapons and excused themselves from the training hall without a word of explanation. Having seen the deadly serious expression on their faces Drift took the extra time to tidy the room before leaving, only to find that the twins weren’t the only ones heading out. The fearful and angry glances aimed Drift’s way under the glare of yellow emergency lighting told the Ex-Decepticon more than he wanted to know, so he took himself off to his quarters like a good little neutral and settled down to wait for instructions or the all-clear.

### ~V~V~V~

Ratchet groaned and rested his backplates against the cool tiled wall of the washracks, letting the solvent sluice over his aching frame. He didn’t have the energy to clean himself off at the moment. In a minute or two he’d grab a brush and start scrubbing, but right now he was quite happy to just let the solvent flow over him, loosening the surface layers of soot and dried energon that caked his frame, carrying big chunks of grime and gore away down the drain.

_That was fragging_ appalling.

A mission gone terribly wrong.

Ambush by Decepticons that _shouldn’t have been there_.

_Looks like Drift is right, about Megatron targeting medics._

As if thoughts of the speedster had summoned him Drift was suddenly there, materialising just inside the door and stalking through the light swirls of steam, glaring at Ratchet with the fixed gaze of a predator on the hunt. Yellow optics _blazed_ as the speedster stopped before Ratchet, Field boiling with rage and other emotions the filthy, exhausted medic didn’t have the processor power to analyse.

Something traitorous deep inside Ratchet wanted to bask in the intensity of Drift’s regard. He told that desire to frag off, reaching for self-discipline instead.

“What the _frag_ did you think you were doing?” Drift growled, words harsh with the old Rodion accent that was the first Ratchet had ever heard him use, the one he reverted to when stressed.

“ _What?_ ”

“You _know_ Megtron is targeting medics and you are one of the most skilled we have left on either side of the war.” Drift’s hands were curling and uncurling, obviously overriding requests to release his battle-grade claws. “You _know_ you are a high-priority target, so _why the frag_ would you go running off by yourself during a firefight in uncertain conditions? Are you _insane?_ ”

The sheer _fear_ currently pouring from one of the most notorious and dangerous Cybertronians in existence stopped the air in Ratchet’s vents.

Not fear alone; no, it was fear and _concern_. Drift was afraid of something, _desperately_ afraid, worried about some undefined event that he seemed determined not to let himself voice. Sluggish processors still running mostly on battle protocols finally parsed the situation and Ratchet was suddenly hit with the feeling that someone had just dropkicked his brain module to Luna Two.

_He’s afraid …_ for _me? No, that_ can’t _be right!_

“Do you care so _little_ about your own life that you’d throw it away like that? Did you not stop to think that there might be people who’d _care_ if you died?” Drift’s voice came dangerously close to cracking on the last few words; Ratchet heard the distinctive rasp that would normally be hiddens by the speedster’s already-rough voice. “What about _them?_ What about the mechs who’d miss _you?_ ”

Too tired to control himself, Ratchet’s retort was sharp and filled with reflexive cynicism.

“Miss my _skills_ , you mean.”

Drift’s Field boiled over in an uncontrolled wave of _rage/hurt/insult/determination_ that slammed into Ratchet a split second before Drift’s hands closed around his helm, pulling him down to where Drift’s lips were waiting for his and then Drift was devouring him with the single-minded determination of a starving mech given life-saving energon.

Ratchet had been hoping for something like this for so long that he was helpless to resist. He surrendered to it, to the hunger and desire and desperation in Drift’s kiss, feeling his frame heat as battle protocols converted so easily to lust. Lust that he desperately tried to reign in, remembering that first marvellous press of lipplates and how it had ended so abruptly with Drift scrambling away from him and fleeing as if he’d been burned.

Than someone whimpered and rational thought evaporating like the solvent from his plating as Drift moved forward, crowding Ratchet back against the tiled wall of the washrack. His hands rose of their own accord, skimming the sleek, unadorned curve of Drift’s chestplates and coming to rest lightly on the speedster’s deceptively strong shoulders.

Drift shuddered beneath his touch and Ratchet would have pulled away, was going to pull away but Drift growled and shoved him back against the wall, ducking as he surged forward so Ratchet’s arms slid up and over his shoulders and then they were pressed together, clean armour to filthy, both of them burning and Ratchet couldn’t hear anything over the pounding in his audials as Drift shuddered and pinned him against the wall and kissed him until all thought stopped and their frames had filled the room with so much steam there was nothing left besides them and this endless moment.

It was divine, Drift’s frame scorching him clear through to his core, burning away everything but _now_ and _yes_ and _more, please don’t stop, don’t leave me alone._ The smooth curve of a thigh pressed between Ratchet’s legs and he parted them willingly, giving everything Drift asked for and willing to have whatever he was given in exchange.

Until he felt Drift shaking, little sounds of distress interrupting the steady thrum of his engine as he palpably tried to push himself further and faster than his spark and mind were ready for. As soon as Ratchet felt this he gentled his responses, humming contentedly into Drift’s mouth as he tried to de-escalate the situation.

Drift pulled away, leaving Ratchet’s arms cold and empty as dark claws slashed angrily through the air.

“What do you _want_ from me?” Drift demanded, radiating confusion and fury even as his frame practically vibrated with lust and fear. “I just don’t _get_ you. Everybody wants _something_ , that’s just how it _is_. So what do you _want_ from me, Ratchet?”

Again those black claws tore through the thick fog surrounding them in a gesture of pure frustration, Drift’s amber optics bored into Ratchet and he couldn’t have looked away if his life depended on it.

“I don’t want _anything_ from you that isn’t willingly and freely given.” Ratchet said firmly, holding his hands out, palm-up. “I _don’t_ want you to tear yourself to pieces trying to be what you think others want you to be; _especially_ not trying to do what you think I want you to do. Whatever you are willing to share with me is more than I have any right to expect.”

Drift was watching him warily now, Field prodding at his in search of the truth as their fans churned, working hard to cool overheated frames. Exhaustion combined with the conflicting impulses surging through Ratchet’s frame served to annihilate what little self-control he had left, a confession flooding out of him in a jumbled mess of words.

“I _didn’t_ save you so that you would owe me, _nothing_ like that. I saved you because I couldn’t give up on you, Drift. No matter what else has happened, I wanted you to live. That is _all_. I just wanted to know that you were out there somewhere, that special spark, still alive. So help me I would do it all again in a sparkbeat; it was completely selfish and _I don’t care_."

Vents heaving, Ratchet glared defiantly at the speedster, daring him to challenge what he’d just said.

Drift was looking at him with an odd mix of incredulity and wonder that made Ratchet shift uncomfortably, the swiftly cooling cleanser running over his frame now pulling more heat from his frame than he could really afford to lose.

“Yeah, I _really_ don’t get you.” Drift rasped.

Then he shocked Ratchet all over again by stepping forwards and sliding his arms cautiously around the medic’s waist, moving forward boldly when Ratchet didn’t resist, pressing their frames together from collar fairing to pelvic housing.

All the air seemed to vanish from Ratchet’s frame even though his ventilation system was working perfectly. He couldn’t formulate a reply, recharge and defrag warnings flashing up on his HUD that he dismissed without a second thought as he carefully wrapped his arms around Drift’s smooth frame.

Nothing in the universe could have convinced him to move in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Drift can read, to an extent. The kind of formal glyphwork Ratchet used is way beyond him though. Ratchet was trying to say something like 'Thank you for kissing me and I understand+accept you reacting the way you did and I'm willing to wait for you to be ready to kiss me again if you want to' (Or that was the intent. he should have just written a bloody letter.)  
> ~Wtf Ratchet you're tired shut up and go the fuck to sleep before you get to 'Open Mouth, Insert Foot' stage.
> 
>  
> 
> One proper chapter and a scene to go...


	13. Take Me To Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ratchet and Drift finally face the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:  
> (Drift) [Drowned](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0i8F5JJQfc) [Tim Minchin]  
> (Ratchet) [All You Did Was Save My Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfrGZuFrJnE) [Our Lady Peace]  
> (Both) [Take me to Church](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYSVMgRr6pw) [Hozier]

Somehow Drift managed to pull himself from Ratchet’s embrace, but not until the medic’s engine had developed the distinctive tone of a mech on the last dregs of his strength. Slowly, carefully he helped Ratchet scrub down and dried him despite his protests, escorting the medic to his quarters afterwards.

He was intending to make sure that Ratchet made it to his own berth and then leave him to his rest, but a hand on his arm stopped him. Ratchet’s Field rippled with uncertainty and something that Drift would have called shyness if it was any other mech.

“Would you mind staying?” Ratchet asked quietly. “Just to recharge.”

Drift cycled his vents, searching Ratchet’s face and trying to work out what was going on. This didn’t feel like what had happened between them in the washracks. It felt… different.

“It’s a medic thing. After that much death… being near another spark helps.” Came the explanation as blue optics slid away, refusing to meet his. “‘Aid or Forceps usually do after something that bad, but they’re still putting people back together. And the Twins are still out in the field.”

At the mention of Sun and Sides something clicked in Drift’s processors and understanding washed through him.

Understanding accompanied by old memories tainted by too much hunger and the things done to numb it. If he stayed the speedster knew he would have to stay awake so he didn’t thrash around and wake Ratchet up. Two nights in a row without recharge would be a strain without the coding hacks the Autobots had removed, but one look at Ratchet’s haggard faceplates decided him.

_If it will help him sleep, I'll do it._

“Alright. Shove over.” Drift settled himself beside Ratchet on the berth as the medic made room for him and commanded the lights off. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t try to skip morning fuel and sneak down to medical on an empty tank; may as well be me.”

Ratchet was silent for a moment, then Drift heard a scraping sound as he shook his head.

“Shut up and sleep.”

Despites his best intentions, Drift did.

### ~V~V~V~

Ratchet awoke warm and comfortable, a familiar Field pulsing gently against his. There were arms around him and slow puffs of air from someone’s vents ghosting across his frame and the flat plane of audial kibble pressed against his cheek. Then his proprioception came fully online and Ratchet was forced to amend his analysis of their sleeping positions.

_That’s_ my _cheek pressing against it._

He knew who was in his berth before he brought his optics online to see smooth pewter grey plating. The way the speedster was using Ratchet’s shoulder as a pillow meant he had to roll his optics sideways to see Drift’s sleeping faceplates. It was an image he knew deep down that he wouldn’t mind waking up to on a regular basis, but Ratchet knew all too well that one angry monologue and some heated making out did not a relationship make.

Sighing, Ratchet let his optics slide offline and focused on the weight and scent of the mech draped half-over him, trying to memorise the sensations as Drift shifted in response to some recharge vision, tightening his grip.

Silently luxuriating in the feeling of the frame next to his, Ratchet allowed himself to fall back into recharge.

He awoke not long after cycling down, feeling extremely warm and registering a strange pressure against his hip, trying to make sense of an odd noise that had woken him. Drift’s Field was pulsing against his, the speedster’s sleep-fuzzed arousal as obvious as the shape of his audial flares. The sound that had woken Ratchet repeated; a low mumble of his designation punctuated by hitching vents as Drift shifted against him in slow, undulating movements.

Then Drift froze, engine stalling and clunking through a gear change as he woke to discover the situation.

“Good dream?” Ratchet asked, keeping his own frame and Field relaxed.

“How long have you been awake?” Drift asked, the resurgence of his old accent showing just how tense he was.

“Long enough.” Ratchet projected amusement and relaxation, glancing down to see wide amber optics watching him warily. “And the feeling is mutual, in case you didn’t figure it out last night.”

“Ah.”

Drift went to shift away and hissed through clenched denta when his determinedly erect spike dragged through a groove at the top of Ratchet’s thigh, rubbing lubricant into some of the medic’s transformation seams.

_Oh frag me, that feels_ good _._

“I’ve got no problems with lending you a hand with that, if you want one.” Ratchet offered before he could second-guess himself, clarifying with “ _Just_ a hand. You don’t have to do anything except use it.”

Temptation and doubt chased each other across Drift’s faceplates.

“What do you get out of it?” He asked suspiciously.

Uncharacteristically murderous thoughts filled Ratchet’s processor.

_I think Starscream’s wings would look very nice on the wall, just over there by the door._

“I get to find out if your overload face is as gorgeous as I thought, or if it’s better.” Ratchet shrugged awkwardly, trying not to hit Drift’s nasal ridge with his pauldron. “Honestly, that’s all I really want right now.”

Drift shifted, lifting himself up off Ratchet’s shoulder and giving him a long, incredulous look.

“Yeah, I don’t get you at _all_.” The speedster said eventually, then he bit his lip. The next words from his vocaliser nearly stalled Ratchet's processor. “But I’ll take you up on that offer, if you don’t mind.”

Ratchet didn't know what his own expression looked like, but Drift's answering smile was worth _any_ amount of looking stupid.

### ~V~V~V~

Lust warred with tension within Drift, the latter enhanced by the lingering ghost of his tormentor as Ratchet rolled to face him, blue optics watching his reactions carefully.

He followed Ratchet’s quiet promptings to lie comfortably on his side facing the medic, one arm folded up beneath his helm. The other hovered awkwardly in the air before it moved of its own volition, hand coming to rest on Ratchet’s strong waist as the medic’s arm moved low between them, seeking Drift’s erect spike.

Finding it.

_Oh, Primus._

It was slow and it was awkward but the touch of Ratchet’s hand sent liquid fire through Drift’s lines, stoking his arousal instead of diminishing it. His internal temperature climbed steadily as careful fingers grazed his lubricant-slickened length, sending a jolt of lust through him. Those blue optics monitored every twitch he made, monitoring his reactions as slowly, carefully Ratchet explored Drift’s spike by touch alone. Gentle fingertips caressed him, delicate pressure establishing which places were the most sensitive as the medic mapped every square micrometer of Drift’s spike with the same thoroughness he did everything. His movements were a little clumsy, as if Ratchet was distracted or couldn’t quite feel what he was doing.

Drift didn’t care.

_He’s probably planning exactly how he’s gonna get me off._

The thought set Drift’s entire frame alight and his patience abruptly evaporated.

Recklessness seized him and he reached between their frames, feeling the heated air from his own vents washing over his lubricant-slicked shaft as he wrapped Ratchet’s fingers around, holding them in place with a carefully calculated grip.

“I _know_ about your hands.” Drift growled, delighting in Ratchet’s startled reaction. “So switch the fragging sensors back on and _use them_.”

The first firm stroke over his spike fogged his processors; the second one stole all coherent thought and on the third Drift started moving in counterpoint, thrusting into the movement of Ratchet’s hand as pleasure burned through his frame. He couldn’t take his eyes off the medic, memorising the way Ratchet’s armour fluffed out and the soft whir of his cooling fans coming online as Drift chased overload in his fist.

When Ratchet’s glossa flicked out to lick his lipplates Drift acted on impulse again, leaning forward and kissed the shine from those lips, drinking in the soft sounds of pleasure that Ratchet couldn’t quite smother, answering them with his own as charge and fire coiled low in his belly, building inexorably towards the peak.

Drift overloaded first, moaning into Ratchet’s mouth as his spike spilled molten heat over their hands to puddle on the berth beneath them. Ratchet followed him an instant later with a shudder and a gasp, optics fixed intently on Drift’s face as sensory feedback tipped him over the edge. He kept moving, determinedly drawing Drift’s pleasure out despite the overload making the motion of his hand clumsy and awkward. A second overload rippled through Drift, dragging a whimper from his vocaliser as his frame went limp against the berth.

Ratchet’s expression in that instant was the most gorgeous thing Drift had ever seen.

_…I know what I have to do. ~~~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT. SODDING. TIME.
> 
> ...No blessings or holy water can save me now.


	14. Freedom of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Drift takes matters into his own hands.  
> With style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [Are We All We Are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWqmRGnqYpw) [Pink]

Optimus was in his office when Drift marched in with the look of a mech that wouldn’t take no for an answer, stubbornness writ loud in every line of the speedsters’ frame.

It was amazing how far the mech had come since Ratchet’s team pulled his battered frame from the escape pod. That starved and beaten wreck of a mech was completely unrecognisable as the sleek, deadly warrior that stood before the Prime’s desk and stared him down with blazing yellow optics.

Pride filled Optimus.

His Autobots had worked miracles but Drift himself had conjured the biggest ones of all as he stubbornly clawed his way to where he stood now. It gave the Prime hope, hope for the future and hope that they could bridge the ideological chasm he could see slowly tearing their race apart. Optimus voiced none of those thoughts, projecting a polite, professional demeanour as he addressed the neutral mech.

“Good day, Drift. What may I do for you?”

“I want a job.”

It was a demand, not a request.

_He’s earlier than Rung predicted but later than what Sideswipe thought. Looks like I win._

Somehow Optimus managed to keep his smile from reaching his optics, fighting the urge to retract his battlemask and beam at the speedster. He couldn’t resist a little subtle innuendo, keeping his glyphs completely innocent so that only those who knew him well would pick up that he intended a potential double-meaning.

“I take it that you have a position in mind?”

It sailed right over Drift’s helm, although Ratchet would have thrown something at him and Red Alert was probably choking on silent laughter at his post.

“Ratchet needs a bodyguard; he’s making it too slagging easy for the ‘Cons to take him out.” Drift’s engine rumbled away beneath his words, eloquently expressing his anger. “You need someone who can’t be assigned away somewhere else when you’re short on soldiers, someone who knows ‘Con tricks and the ones to watch out for, someone who isn’t so slagging intimidated they won’t knock him on his aft when he tries to go charging into the middle of a shootout.”

“And you think you’re the best mech for the job?”

“I _know_ I am.” Drift snarled, baring his fangs in a challenge of Optimus and everything he represented. “I’d do the job anyway but if you make it official then he can’t do scrap about it.”

“It sounds like you have a good grasp of the situation and the mech concerned.” Optimus allowed approval to creep into his voice. “Will you consent to the necessary upgrades and modifications as well as further training specific to such duties?”

Drift nodded sharply.

“I’m _not_ taking the Autobrand.” His words were a warning and ultimatum.

“I wouldn’t expect it of you unless you were ready.” Optimus said easily. “I suspect we still have a long way to go in regards to proving that we truly are different from those we seek to replace.”

“Damn right you do.” Drift muttered, glaring belligerently at Optimus as if daring him to react.

Retracting his battlemask Optimus smiled broadly, relishing the brief flash of astonishment that crossed Drift’s faceplates.

“In that case, I do believe it would be my great pleasure to welcome you to the team, Drift.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last little scene to finish this fic off. Deadlock/Drift really has come a long way since Starscream got his claws into him and I hope I've managed to show a convincing version of this character where he still has an inner core of 'self' that he isn't willing to compromise or hide for the sake of fitting in and being accepted.
> 
> Thank you so much Notanevilmastermind for commissioning this fic. It ended up becoming far, far longer than I ever expected but it has been an absolute blast. Thank you for you patience while I worked on it and the feedback on the draft that helped it become so much better than it would have been, and for not laughing too loudly when I was screaming at these stubborn gits to JUST KISS ALREADY. You are an absolute gem *heart emoji*

**Author's Note:**

> A usual, please let me know if there is a tag you'd like added.
> 
> This fic was commissioned by NotAnEvilMastermind. All damage to your feels (and braincells) by this fic (and the chapter titles) are entirely their fault. I am simply the vessel through which their definitely-not-evil plans were carried out.  
> 


End file.
